


The Master of London

by teacup_of_doom



Series: The Master of London [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 16:30:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 82,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/587437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacup_of_doom/pseuds/teacup_of_doom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The City of London is a city with secrets.  John Watson has secrets of his own.</p><p>Murders have begun to mount in London, spreading from the Wizarding community to the Muggle.  The Aurors can't handle the situation on their own, while New Scotland Yard has been forced to approach Sherlock Holmes for help.</p><p>John may have the only solution, and he's not interested - he gave up magic years ago, thanks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic came out of a sort of daydream involving John, Sherlock and a lot of Chocolate Frogs. And then spiraled out of control. I don't think I've ever had this much fun plotting.

John was exhausted. Well and truly exhausted.

Sherlock had taken on what had seemed to be a two week long marathon of cases, all of them highly intricate, and all of them causing bodily harm to anyone who came into contact with the perpetrators. It was extremely lucky that neither he nor Sherlock had anything but bruises and one cracked rib.

They had run willy-nilly all over London too. They had crossed the city so many times that John had, at one point, joked that he was fairly certain that he accrued frequent flyer miles just from how many times they’d jumped from rooftop to rooftop. Sherlock hadn’t been amused. Greg had been.

Every part of John’s body hurt though, and he was grateful for the fact that, for once, even Sherlock seemed to be just as tired as he was. He’d left the consulting detective sprawled over the downstairs sofa in his dressing gown and a blanket (one that John had placed over him). John himself was on his back, curled into the lovely, fresh linen with his eyes closed, his eyes half lidded and a small smile on his face as he listened to the sound of the city around him.

London whispered as the September wind blew down its streets and alleyways. It creaked and shifted as the night wore on, buildings settling into the places that they had stood for decades, the footfalls of thousands of people slapping against its stone and echoing through districts. Tires screeched and mortar crumbled, coins dropped. The Thames gurgled and surged against its banks, pushing boats against docks, eager to get free. The hum of it in the back of his head was almost soothing, he’d been aware of it for so long, so accustomed to the noise that it was a part of his mind now. Sherlock would have been confused, if John had ever told him what he could hear in his own bedroom. John’s room, to anyone else’s hearing, was very quiet, not a single noise could be heard from the locked and insulated window. Not even the sound of Mrs. Hudson pottering around her flat downstairs.

Some part of the buzz of London in the back of John’s mind stirred, grew stronger, and John found himself breathing in deeply as a familiar feeling brushed the recesses of his sleep-deprived mind. It felt old, it always had, older than John ever wanted to feel, as if centuries were all condensed into one place. It tasted – and he was never sure if it was a physical taste, or simply a mental one – of earth, and water, and stone, deep and damp in John’s very bones. It was akin to the feeling of the damp calm before a rainstorm.

_Hello_. John thought. Immediately his consciousness was a collage of people happily smiling and waving, as if he was viewing something for which one photo would not suffice, all suffused with a happy-feeling warmth. John smiled gently.

The feeling changed a little, still old, but there was a reproving factor to it, and the image of himself and Sherlock running through a treacherous alley, and a bridge building itself over rooftops with John walking across it, instead of jumping across it. John grinned to himself. _I know you want to help, but I can’t let you._

A feeling of upset and confusion flooded his mind, and the feeling that something was giving him a mental hug. John briefly returned it. _I can’t let you because Sherlock would notice. He’s already noticing that I sometimes get to the suspect we’re chasing faster than he does, and he knows your streets by heart. Thank you for creating those shortcuts for me, by the way. There were a few times when I thought that Sherlock was going to be in serious trouble._

There was a pleased feeling, and then came an image of Sherlock running down a street, someone running away in front of him, and a small cobblestone lifting itself a few inches to trip the suspect. John had to fight not to laugh aloud. _You haven’t actually done that?!_  

The picture of a random person shaking their head was the response, as was the feeling of “but I could”. _But you shouldn’t_ , John thought, amused. Sherlock would definitely notice that.

There was another wave of disappointment, like a toddler pouting. A very old toddler. John soothed the old feeling mentally. _You could keep us from tripping though, he suggested. And maybe drop a brick on the next person who tries to hit us from behind?_ The feeling this time was warm, liking the idea. It flashed another image to John, this time of him holding his wand (alder, unicorn hair, eleven inches, unyielding) and warding the inside of Baker Street.

John almost opened his eyes enough to blink in surprise. _You want to help me ward Baker Street? Or the stones?_ A picture of pebbles flashed before his eyelids. _It’s a good idea, John mused. We’ll do it tomorrow, if Sherlock is still asleep._ There was the feeling of assent, and then something akin to soothing.

John smiled drowsily. _Bonum nocte ad vos London._ He whispered mentally. _Goodnight to you too London._

As the feeling withdrew, John wondered, idly, if people would react differently towards the city they lived in, if they knew that she actually was alive, somewhat. Sherlock would probably kill to hold a conversation with the city he championed. For the matter, how would Greg act?

* * *

 

Gurzak knew that he was being watched, and was beginning to suspect that he had been watched for some time. The realization of this had not, at first, caused Gurzak any tribulation. He was a high level financier for the Gringotts Wizarding Bank, and was even one of those specifically entrusted with the daily finances of his clan. Gurzak would have been more worried had he found that he was _not_ being watched.

But this was different, the watching. It was almost as if he was being followed. He was used to being trailed at the bank, by underlings or others, and guards. Goblins trusted no one with money, even their own kind. This, however, did not merely seem to occur at the bank, but also at his home, at any pubs he stopped at on his way home. There was always this sense of someone watching him that left Gurzak with a prickling feeling at the tips of his ears, the same unsettling feeling one always got when one felt a presence in an obviously empty room. That feeling of being watched with some sort of malicious intent had been trailing Gurzak for four months, and the goblin was fully prepared to continue to endure the unsettling feelings, until something had thrown even the usually stable goblin community into a spin. Within fifteen moons of each other, two highly ranked, well respected goblins of two different clans had been found murdered. Killed by a wand-spell that had nearly shredded the bodies, having been cast again, and again, and again.

Gurzak had known both of the goblins well, both as financial rivals and acquaintances. But also as business partners, and not entirely through legal venture either. There was a reason that goblins did not trust one another with money. The goblins had not released the news of the deaths to the wizarding community, who would not care for the deaths of goblins. Most would not, at the very least, and the Ministry of Magic would use it as an excuse to poke around the bank. The deaths were, at the most, killings in response to anything from old blood feuds, or they had run afoul of a fugitive Death Eater. That was, at least, what Gurzak told himself. It could not have been a coincidence that these two goblins were a part of a rather shady deal that Gurzak had been helping to run during the second war with Voldemort. It had been ridiculously risky, both monetarily and legally. Certainly the Ministry, both under the Light and Voldemort would have been swift in drawing their wrath upon them and the non-goblins involved. It was all Gurzak could do not to panic at his desk. But he held his composure, other goblins would have sensed his weakness.

Two and a half months after the deaths of the other two senior financiers, Gurzak had forgotten how panicked the news had made him, though their deaths had not fled his mind. Even the feeling of being watched was beginning to feel normal, because he’d been telling himself he was imagining it. And then one night he had come home to find something amiss in his study. There was nothing overt amiss, not an article was missing, nothing appeared to have been moved, not a tiny thing was out of place, but it still felt, as the shadows on an imperfect diamond, as if there had been someone in his rooms. Suddenly, the fear that his mind had been holding at bay flooded through Gurzak.

The senior guards at Gringotts would have never authorized this, nothing as high caliber as a home search, not without a courteous chat in the Gringotts security offices first. No, Gurzak realized as he stood in the center of his study, the feeling of being watched growing stronger in his ear tips. Whoever had been watching him was not connected to Gringotts.

To his credit, Gurzak did not flee, not immediately. He had not become a leader in the goblin community by panicking. Instead, Gurzak went to his job the next day appearing as calm, cool, and collected as he had any other day. He did so every day for a month, the terror pooling inside of him not visible to his co-workers. If certain files that made their way to Gurzak’s office somehow became shuffled into certain piles or simply disappeared, no one was then the wiser, it was merely assumed that the financier had taken some work home with him, as usual, and went unquestioned.

Only when Gurzak did not show up to Gringotts twice in one week was any alarm raised, and only so soon because of the other goblin deaths. A search of his home found no sign of a struggle, only a sign of meticulous packing, and haphazard shredding of papers. The only clue that this move had been premeditated was the careful preservation of newspaper clippings, and a threatening note written in ink that had been apparently slid under the doorjamb sometime earlier in the week. It said simply, “you shall pay, banker, just as the others will, for your profits and your crimes.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was very surprised (and a bit humbled) when the first chapter of The Master of London got all of the attention it did! I hope not to disappoint. Here is the second chapter. Enjoy!

Somewhere in the depths of London, a wizard was writing. Sadly for the authorities, he wasn’t exactly scrawling on paper. Yellow paint flowed from the tip of his pale colored wand, coalescing in elegant loops on the dirty red brickwork of one of London’s many alleyways. He hummed as he worked, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrated on his handiwork.

Footsteps, quiet ones, were resounding down the alley, but the wizard didn’t bother to stop. Finally a voice whispered out of the darkness. “Frank? Where are you?”

“Over he-re” Frank replied in a singsong tone, louder than the whisperer, and grinned to himself when the other voice swore and scrambled over to him.

“Are you done yet? Colin’s fairly sure that the rozzers-“ There was pause. “Merlin’s saggy balls. We’re trying to catch John’s attention, not submit to an art exhibition.”

“I think” said Frank, stepping back to examine his handiwork. “This will absolutely capture John’s attention, don’t you?” He grinned at his companion, who put her head in one of her gloved hands.

“John and the rest of London, Frank. It’s… very artistic.”

Frank winked at her. “Aw, Leticia, you could have just said you think it’s beautiful. I’ll make one for you over there.”

“No time.” Leticia replied. “We have to go.” She grabbed his arm without warning, and Apparated, just as the bright beams of Muggle flashlights swept the alley.  
The only thing that the beams caught was the shine of slowly drying paint, spelling out the words “We are Watson’s Warriors” in the best calligraphy that a wizard could muster.

 

* * *

They were going to need a bigger bulletin board soon, Greg thought, looking over what had been dubbed “Watson’s Board” in the bullpen at New Scotland Yard. Some enterprising, media savvy young constable had started it, along with a Tumblr feed, with pictures of nearly every single example of “Watson’s Warrior’s” graffiti that had been found by on-the job- constables around London. The Tumblr feed had become quite popular, more so than anyone had thought it would be.

The board in front of Greg was covered in pictures, notes, and drawings. The only reason the same enterprising young constable had gotten away with it was because somehow the whole thing had turned into good press for New Scotland Yard, and because those who had tried to catch members of “Watson’s Warriors” had only accomplished in capturing two graffitists, and neither had been attached to the main group. It also had to be said that a large portion of London’s population had, apparently, been fans of Sherlock, and apparently, John – and his “Warriors”. New Scotland Yard had been the subject of rioting, and the main lobby had been rendered yellow from all the paint. It was better that the public saw the police supporting public opinion, even if they did not support Sherlock or John. Greg owed the Warriors that much. Without their support, he would have been busted back to traffic control – well, he had been for several months. He also owed them John’s continued health after Sherlock’s little – false- plunge to the death.

No one was seriously trying to catch “Watson’s Warriors” any more. The fad was even starting to draw tourists.

Greg grinned at the board between sips of coffee. His own handwriting was evident in some of the graffiti posted there. It was a lot more fun than it looked.  

A constable approached the board through the bustle of the bullpen, carrying pushpins and several pieces of photo paper. “Excuse me, sir.” The constable said apologetically. “I have new material to put up.”

Greg realized that he was blocking access to the board. He grinned apologetically and moved to the right, where he could easily lean on the desk and continue to look at the board. “Sorry Wiggins.” He said. “When were these found?”

“Last night.” Constable Wiggins smiled, trying to find the right place on the board for the new pictures. “A couple of officers found them on the way back to their station after their shift.” She tacked one of the pictures on the board. “They swore that one of the marks – this one, actually.” She pointed to the second photo after she’d tacked it up as well. “Changed colors when they first got there. I don’t quite believe it, but whoever did the writing was very good. It looks like a calligrapher did it.”

Greg blinked, stepped over to the board and raised his eyebrows, impressed. “That’s quite good.”

Constable Wiggins nodded. “I thought so too. I might have made a copy for myself to put up on my desk.”

Greg grinned at the young woman. “Did you? Is there a way for me to get a copy as well? I’d like to give one to John Watson. He likes the interesting ones.”  
Constable Wiggins shrugged. “Of course. I’ll just print another from the file.”

Greg smiled. “Thanks.” He looked at the picture again as Constable Wiggins went off to print another copy. The calligraphy really was quite well done.

 

* * *

John peeked into the shared living room where he’d last left Sherlock – playing with some sort of experiment on the kitchen table with the breakfast dishes piled haphazardly on one end, enough for two people.

Living with Sherlock was, in general, a trial for anyone’s patience on a normal day. Take Sherlock, fresh off of a long, arduous string of cases, somewhat rested after three days, and the consulting detective was actually a little sluggish.

It was fabulous because Sherlock seemed calm. He shuffled around the flat in his robe, checking on old experiments, watching television and reading old journals. The best part, was that Sherlock was actually eating normal meals, not particularly large meals, admittedly, but as long as they continued, John was happy. The only bad part to the sluggishness was that he liked to follow John around the house and be “helpful” in some way. John had banned Sherlock from the kitchen after the consulting detective’s third attempt at cooking, resulting in nearly a whole loaf burnt toast.

After three days, John needed some time out of the flat.

“Sherlock, I’m going out.” John said.

“Buy milk.” Sherlock replied, his eyes flickering upward. “And hobnobs.”

John’s mouth twitched. “You’re going to become a Hobnob if you don’t watch it.” John said, and then escaped before Sherlock could retort.

London was a busy city, had been for thousands of years. Stepping from the threshold of 221B, and onto the concrete sidewalk of the city itself, had the feeling in the back of John’s head of stepping out of a soundproofed room into a sea of noise. London surged around him as hundreds of thousands of people moved, lived their lives. The noise was a cacophony, only dulled by years of practice. It was the energy of the city that John enjoyed. It energized him as much as it energized Sherlock, though perhaps in different ways.

The sentience that was London prodded the back of John’s mind, asking where he wanted to go. John smiled internally.  _Why don’t you tell me where to go, this time? John said. I don’t have anywhere really to be, until later. I’m going to the pub with Greg at tea-time._

As he knew it would, the announcement sent the city into a spasm of excitement. Not a literal one – no one in London would have appreciated an earthquake – but there was a feeling of happiness, and a rush of images that ran so quickly through John’s head that he wasn’t able to keep track of them.  They did seem to center on images of Lestrade, and of a man in the dress of a roman soldier, in a setting that John knew was Roman Londonium. This time, John did grin externally.  _Yes, that Greg._  He teased the city.  _The same detective inspector that you have a tiny bit of a thing for._

The city managed to feel mildly affronted, but did not deny it. Years ago, when John was much younger and still getting used to his connection to the city, London would show him things, tell him stories of its favorite people. The ones who had lived within the walls and boundaries of the city, and had never known that the city was alive and loved them, that it had tried to help them on occasion.

The Roman soldier that London had shown John, had once been the keeper of the peace, as best as he was able, in Londinium. He had defended Britons with the same stolid fairness that he had afforded his own people, and in the end, had kept more Britons safe than he had their oppressors. John’s London had seen Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, and over the years had come to paint the man with the same brush as the Roman soldier – a good man, a good cop, defending anyone they felt needed it. John could see why. Greg had taken Sherlock on when no one else would have – or could have, and had helped make Sherlock into who he was. Greg was probably not aware of it, but the city had tried to help him on occasion. John didn’t know if it went as far as tripping suspects as they ran or creating shortcuts, but anything was possible.  
John took a step, to begin his walk down Baker Street, stuffing his hands in his pockets.  _This is where I’ll be meeting Greg._  He thought contentedly, showing London a mental image of the sign of a pub called The King and The Lionheart. _As long as I’m there by tea-time, I’ll walk where you lead me. To whatever you find curious and interesting._ The city tugged at his mind, humming contentedly, down Baker Street.

He was never really alone, John thought to himself, but he could do worse than London as a constant mental companion. John didn’t see the two yellow scarfed individuals who detached themselves from a lamppost close to 221B and followed him at a respectful distance.

The city took him meandering, making sure that he stopped by a shop in the main street for a bottle of water – the city was always very particular about keeping John supplied – and then took him through parks and side streets, all the while pointing out things, or telling him stories. John had to be careful not to laugh out loud at some of the things that the city showed him. He didn’t even notice that he’d been almost three hours without a text from Sherlock.

Through one of the alleys, something yellow at the top of a fire escape caught John’s eye, and he stopped to look, eyes crinkling. There were some things that had become familiar to John in the last few years, and while he saw them often now, there were few times when he wasn’t happy to see them.

Within the week that Sherlock had jumped off of the roof of Saint Bart’s, graffiti had started to appear all over London. All in paint similar to the color that had been used by the Black Lotus, they had proclaimed loudly and brilliantly “We believe in Sherlock Holmes”. Or, occasionally, “Moriarty was Real”.

At first, the signs had felt like a dagger through his ribs. He’d wanted to scream at the graffitists. Where had these people been when Sherlock’s name and reputation come into question? Why didn’t they come forward? Who were they?

Then Sherlock’s Homeless Network had started stopping him in the street, protecting him from stalking reporters while trying to assure him that these graffitists were genuine supporters of Sherlock Holmes. They had been trying to tell him that these men and women were coming out in groups to support the man who’d helped them, even if it was too late to actually save Sherlock. Eventually, when the need for help and support, or at least the need for someone to rub his back soothingly, outgrew his anger at large, John gave in and admitted that there might have actually been other people who had believed in the best man John had ever known. Instead of distancing himself from them, he had made an effort to meet these people – who had by that time become organized – and joined them. Only enough to give credence to the cause, but not enough to have New Scotland Yard breathing down his neck for names of the ringleaders. Officially, John had never met any of the supporters. That gave him plausible deniability with the London police force. Well, sort of.

Greg Lestrade, Dimock, Molly Hooper- and funnily enough, a repentant Sally Donovan - had joined the underground movement as well. It had been strange, but it had given this core group of people (counting Mrs. Hudson) a sort of strength to continue on. They were guarding a secret bigger than themselves, even though it wasn’t much of a secret. And it drew them together.

John did not know, and he suspected that he would never know, who had come up with the name for the group that had closed ranks around him, but within six months of the movement to clear Sherlock’s name had started, a new sign had sprouted up around the city. In conjunction with the “We Believe in Sherlock Holmes” signs, the new signs proclaimed proudly; “We are Watson’s Warriors.”

The first time he’d seen those particular signs, a warm glow had bloomed in his heart, and he’d had to swallow tears, even as what seemed to be the entirety of New Scotland Yard descended on Baker Street. They had left without a shred of evidence to link John to anything, while John had stood in the middle of the whirlwind that was his flat and just smiled blandly, as if he wasn’t the dangerous and angry man that he really was.

The media whirlwind that had appeared after the signs started to appear would have been daunting if John hadn’t become used to them back when he’d protected Sherlock from them. John gave three interviews only – none of which were with the reporter that had believed Moriarty’s lies – and repeated his conviction that Sherlock Holmes had been the most brilliant man he’d ever known, and was innocent of fraud. The night after the interviews, he’d gone with a group of the graffitists and guerilla graffitied the side of the New Scotland Yard garage with the words “Idiots”, “Moriarty was Real”, and “Sherlock Holmes was better at solving cases than you lot”. John couldn’t look Greg in the eyes for weeks afterwards because they were both terrified of bursting into laughter. It was surreal. He was grieving, and yet, there were people around him all the time, making sure that he was ok, that he was, if not fully functioning, than at least distracted.

John hadn’t survived the whole three years unscathed of course. His own character had come under fire multiple times. The Kitty woman was becoming as notorious as Rita Skeeter was in the Wizarding World, because she’d been hard pressed to keep up the level of sensationalism in her articles – John had been a frequent target until her editors had told her to lay off. His depression, thought gone after he’d met Sherlock, resurged with a vengeance. Mycroft had told him, much later, that he’d placed John on a suicide watch. If it hadn’t been for that, Harry – who’d sobered up when she’d heard the things being said about her brother, and Greg, John wasn’t sure what he would have done.

If his life had continued in this oddly sad, but happy way, John would have been happy. But his life had never been simple.

Two years, almost to the day that Sherlock had jumped, and a telephone service company worker had found a recording of Sherlock’s last call in the telephone company’s system – Sherlock’s personal recording of events that had occurred on the rooftop, his goodbye to John, the Jump – he’d set the record feature on his phone to run through the whole ordeal. They’d released it on the morning news as soon as the networks had bought the recording off of the man. Mycroft hadn’t even had time to give John prior warning.

Suddenly, it was as if the world was both collapsing on top of John, and exploding with joy. John didn’t leave the flat for weeks afterwards. Mainly because Baker Street had come under almost literal siege by the media – international media even. His blog, which had been inundated with coarse remarks after the Jump, was now filled with messages of apology, of hope, and of encouragement. The entirety of London seemed to put up their own signs in that week. The only people allowed into the flat were Mrs. Hudson, Harry, and Greg.

John had ignored everything. His phone was turned off, his television had been off since he’d seen the original report. No newspaper passed the threshold. John spent most of the time either crying, consuming nothing but tea and toast or liquor, and trying to wrap his mind around the fact that Sherlock had died to protect him, and Mrs. Hudson, and Greg. The city – the sentience of the city – had done it’s best to sooth him in its own way.

When he’d come round from a nap on the sofa one night, Mycroft Holmes – looking more worn than John had ever seen him, and a little red around the eyes – was standing in the sitting room. He’d said nothing, but merely gestured to the outside the window, which had been covered for the last few weeks. It had been uncovered now. The first glance that John took had taken his breath away. Masked men and women, all wearing yellow scarves to hide their faces, were holding a candlelight vigil in front of 221B, staring back up at him, and keeping the reporters away. Apparently, as Mycroft told him, the vigil had been going on for days, growing larger by the hour.

John had taken only one glance back at Mycroft, and then had thrown himself down the stairs, out into the street. The rest of the night was a massive, joyful blur. He’d tromped back to Baker Street the next morning, a scarf that looked suspiciously Hufflepuff in nature wrapped around his face, and the city thrumming joyfully around him. The fact that someone – or many someones- had tagged the Times building and BBC’s Broadcasting House with “TOLD YOU SO” in large, yellow letters, was just a bonus.

What had surprised John most, was that even after the revelation that Sherlock was not a fraud, the group of near vigilantes – most Muggles, but some wizards that had come out to support John – that had styled themselves as “Watson’s Warrior’s” had not, actually dispersed. In fact, their numbers seemed to grow. Almost every night since the revelation, there would be a vigil outside the door of 221B, of men and women wearing yellow scarves keeping the reporters away, telling stories about Sherlock Holmes and his blogger. One night John had opened the door carrying cocoa for the vigil keepers, only to have Henry Knight – wearing a yellow scarf and looking much better than he had when John had last seen him - take the tray from his arms and help.

221B had become a hub of activity since Watson’s Warriors was formed. At any given time of the day or night, there would be members of the homeless network being fed by John or Mrs. Hudson, or any number of volunteers. There were raucous discussions throughout the night. Graffiti raids planned, activism tips traded. John was almost never alone. He suspected that was another reason that people had come.  _Someone_ , he’d been told by a girl who couldn’t have been more than twenty four,  _had to look after Sherlock’s John_. He hadn’t been sure what to think of that statement, but later realized that he’d been wearing a wide smile for the rest of the day after the comment. Mrs. Hudson, of course, was in her element. She had become den mother to the activists, and could been seen at any hour taking care of someone, giving directions, and – once – nearly stabbing a reporter with a knitting needle because he’d tried to slip inside the flat.

Nearly a year after the revelation, Greg, Mycroft, Dimmock, Sally, Mrs. Hudson, and John had been having a private Saturday afternoon lunch in the flat, when a commotion outside had alerted them that something was afoot. They hadn’t even had time to put down their forks, when a familiar lanky and dark haired man had climbed the stairs, entered the flat, and raised an eyebrow at them.   
  
John knocked him down first. Almost within the first three seconds, if Greg was to be believed. Greg knocked him down second, then pulled Sherlock up and shook him so hard that it looked as if Sherlock had whiplash. Dimmock had looked upset, but he and Sally had dragged the two other men off of the not so late consulting detective long enough to allow Mrs. Hudson to break down in a crying, happy mess around Sherlock’s waist.  
  
Their reaction was nothing compared to the reaction of Watson’s Warriors. From the moment that Sherlock once again stepped outside 221B in the flesh, the Warriors were on him. From the window of his bedroom, where John had retreated, he could see that they, with Henry Baskerville at the head, were shouting at the consulting detective. John did not know what they had told Sherlock – or threatened him with – but Sherlock had been more…careful…with and around John since the confrontation with the Warriors.  
  
John would have asked the Warriors what they’d said, but when he’d approached Henry Knight about it, the younger man had refused, and under no circumstances was John to ask again.

Since that day, both he and Sherlock had been spending much of their time re-acclimating to one another. Sherlock seemed to be having a better time of it, simply because John was taking care of him again. Sherlock had been abysmally thin when he’d first walked back into 221B – he’d now acquiesced to eating the food John prepared normally at meals.  
  
John was having a worse time with it, of course. He’d watched Sherlock die. He’d been angry for such a long time, he’d been so alone, again. His best friend, nearly the only friend that he’d had after leaving the military, and the only reason that he’d not blown his brains out upon those first few months in London after the hospital had discharged him. It had been a near thing after Sherlock had died.  
  
It was getting better though. Sherlock was being more careful with what he did, and John took care not to push him into doing anything he didn’t want to. Though, Sherlock seemed to be content just to be there, even going so far as to accompany John to places he would never otherwise have gone - Tesco’s for a start.  
  
The city’s consciousness poked at the back of John’s mind. It wasn’t nearly done showing John the things that it wanted to - and it was almost tea time! John took one last look at the graffiti, and smiled mentally.  _All right_. He thought.  _Next time, we’ll do a whole day. For now, let’s get me to the pub. I’ll even say hi to Greg for you._  
  
The city grudgingly acquiesced.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! I want to wish everyone a Happy Holidays, no matter what holiday you celebrate.
> 
> Also, sorry this chapter is a bit short. This is also my first time writing Sherlock as a character, so I’m hoping it worked out.
> 
> I had to update this chapter because of a missing scene, sorry about that!

* * *

The King and the Lionheart was a pub John had been familiar with for years. He’d first gone there as a student in university - when it was smaller, dimly lit, and cheap enough to be a frequent student haunt. Nowdays, the pub was under new management, and as a result, it was larger, decently lit, and quite popular. John had to elbow his way through the crowd to make his way over to Greg, who was distracted by the football match on the large televisions hanging above the bar.   


_This one is for you._ John thought to his city. “Hi Greg.” He said, slipping his pint of cider onto the table and sitting down opposite the off-duty detective inspector, startling the other man out of his reverie. The city gave a contented, happy, sigh that only John heard.

“John!” Greg grinned. “Sherlock let you out of the house by yourself then?”

John shook his head, chuckling. “I’ve been out for ages. As long as I come back with certain items from Tescos, Sherlock has graciously let me out on my own.”

Greg bit his lip to hide his amusement - it didn't work. “Milk?” He guessed.  


“Milk.” John acknowledged. “And hobnobs.”  
  
Greg looked surprised. “He’s eating?”

John smiled, a more genuine smile compared to those he’d given Greg over the past few years. “Regular meals, if you’ll believe it. Full English breakfast over the last few days.”  
  
“Like the doctor ordered?”  
  
John sighed. “Yeah. I just hope it lasts.”  
  
“He didn’t eat much, you know, before.” Greg said tentatively. The Fall and the years after were still a tense subject to bring up with John.

John nodded, showing that it didn’t bother him right now. “I hope that’ll stop now.”  
  
“You and me both.” John said.   
  
Greg’s phone beeped, and John waited while Greg took the phone out of his pocket, checked it, and then sighed before putting it back.  


“You’re being called in?” John asked. It had happened before when they’d been on pub nights.   
  
“No.” Greg said, and the relief was palpable. “A body was found near the docks this morning. I can’t give away too much information, obviously. But we’re waiting on tests, they seem to be taking quite a while.”   
  
“Anything for Sherlock?” John asked.

Greg shook his head. “No. At least not yet. Seems to be a simple one. Anderson is trying to figure out what the murder weapon is.” Greg’s eyes brightened. “Nearly forgot.” He grinned, reached into his coat pocket and brought out a photograph. “Your Warriors have been at it again. This one was found last night - Constable Wiggins said that the constables who found it swore that the paint changed colors for a while, under the light.”  


John laughed and took the photo. “That’s impossible.” He glanced at the photo, and nearly moaned in horror. The sign had clearly been made by a wizard, had to be for that amount of precision. He’d known there were wizards - his old friends - amongst the ranks of Watson’s Warriors, and he knew why they’d probably flocked to the Warriors in the first place. He thought he knew who’d done this one too. He smirked at Greg, who was waiting for his verdict. “It’s...amazingly well done. Think we’d be allowed to take the brickwork and put it into a museum?”  


Greg snorted with laughter. “No, but I’ll bet if you take it back to Sherlock, he’d be pleased to see it. I know he takes a look at the board at the Yard more often than I do.” Greg’s eye was caught by the television again, and he was thoroughly distracted from the artistic endeavors of Watson’s Warriors.  “Oh, ouch!”  
  
The rest of the night was spent cheering on football teams, yelling, and losing half of their pints to the floor.

* * *

 

John had been gone at least an hour before Sherlock admitted that he was little bored with his experiment. He had been less bored within the last three days, but there was only so much rest he could take – even if it was doing John good.

And he was doing everything in his power to make sure John was alright. John was the sole – well, the most important reason that Sherlock had returned. The first few months back had been full of tension. Now, Sherlock was on firmer ground with not only John, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, but also with Mycroft and Sally Donovan.  But John he worried about most.  
  
Sherlock was aware of how much he had damaged John by faking his death. He knew that John was still occasionally tense on the subject. He also knew that to keep John, there would be no secrets between them, there could be none. Some things, admittedly, Sherlock would never share with John, and many of those things were acts that Sherlock had committed to keep his friend alive. Sherlock was afraid that one misstep could cause everything that he treasured to come crashing down.  
  
For someone who had always claimed that he’d never had emotions, Sherlock had spent a good deal of time discovering that he did, in fact, have them under special circumstances.  
The boredom was getting to him though. As were things that had, for quite some time, been hiding at the back of his mind.  
  
For instance, the realization that he knew very little about John’s childhood, or, realistically, anything before John had enrolled in the Army.  
  
John kept his mouth firmly shut about it, which made sense. John was a very quiet, reserved individual. However, the only things that Sherlock knew about John’s past was that his sister’s drinking was a family trait, his parents had died when John young – John had never said how, and that John went to a boarding school.  
  
His mind palace was full of things that he knew about John now, but nothing from before – and oddly, it was something that Sherlock could not bare. The lack of information was unacceptable on several levels, a few of which Sherlock refused to acknowledge consciously. Certainly, he could go to Mycroft, but it was unlikely that any of his brother’s files would have the information that Sherlock truly wanted.    
  
It was almost as if John was hiding something.  
  
Which was why he was currently in John’s room, against his own better judgment, looking through John’s things. Only the bottom of the chest of drawers really. There was not much of actual interest within the drawer itself, just a few sweaters that John did not wear often - and a small, black wooden box. It was badly painted, but it clearly had a great deal of importance, otherwise, it would not have been kept. There were scratches littering the outside of the box, indicating that it had been handled often, and had been hurriedly moved at least twice. Someone had carved John’s initials badly into part of the lid.  
  
Sherlock sat on John’s bed with the box in his lap, continuing to study it. It was at least twenty years old, older probably. The letters of John’s name had been carved by someone very young and inexperienced. There was slight damage to the structure of the box, as if it had been bashed and fixed haphazardly. the clasp at the front had also been broken, and never been replaced. As if it had no longer been needed. Gently, Sherlock pushed the lid open.  
The contents of the box were immediately both dull and interesting. The box was full of odds and ends, each clearly holding some sentimental value. The things were lying on a royal blue cloth that had absolutely seen better days - it had been clearly set on fire once before.  
  
Sherlock’s forehead wrinkled as he examined the objects. He picked one out of the box and held it between his thumb and forefinger. It was the lens of a very old fashioned camera - but the lens was one good bump away from shattering. He gingerly put the lens back, and picked up the next object that caught his eye. It was a small, solid, wooden pumpkin, with a stem and a green leaf. The little orange thing was tiny in his palm, worn smooth where someone with smaller hands had held it often. So often that the paint had faded - the pumpkin was now more sandy brown than it’s original orange.  
  
Sherlock put this artifact of John’s back just as gently as the first, and then something glinted at him from the bottom of the box. Sherlock shifted the rest of the items in the box until he could pull it gingerly out of the box.  
  
It was a pin. Small, obviously a school pin - and obviously from the boarding school that John had attended, but it was not a design that Sherlock recognized. It was a shield, black and yellow, like a bee - with a small silver badger prominently rearing in the center. Sherlock absently ran his thumb over the badger, reading the name below the shield.  
  
 _Hufflepuff_. Sherlock thought. “ _What on Earth is a Hufflepuff_?”  
  
He reluctantly put the pin back in the box, and the box to it’s rightful place, the image of the strange pin held in his mind.  
  
The pin was a clue. A clue to who John was before Sherlock had ever known him. He took this pin, and went into his mind palace. The core room, the centre of the palace, had for years now been the living room in 221B. John - Sherlock’s mental representation of John - liked to flit from this room to the room that was officially John’s bedroom in real life - as the real John would.  
  
The mental John was currently in the living room. The little pin materialized on the front of John’s sweater - the oatmeal one - right over John’s heart, like that was where it belonged.  
  
Sherlock didn’t like it. It felt oddly out of place on the image of John that he knew.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very, very, sorry to have got this chapter out almost two weeks late. It will not happen again, with any luck. I had a medical situation that prevented me from doing much of anything. 
> 
> Last Saturday, my left eye went out of focus, and then nearly completely blurry. I’m still not completely better, but my eyesight is slowly returning. The doctor thinks that it’s not anything serious, but I’m crossing my fingers and hoping.
> 
> Anyway, here is the fourth chapter!

Not many wizards were allowed into the goblin cities that lay beneath Gringotts wizarding bank. Most wizards just seemed to think that the goblins lived within Gringotts itself, which was grossly incorrect. Goblins, like wizards, had families, and valuables, and their own lives outside of taking care of wizard’s gold.

Bill loved the goblin city that lay just under Gringotts. He’d had to take an oath – the Goblin’s version of an Unbreakable Vow – to be allowed here. It was worth it, for all that he could never speak of it to anyone. Well, almost. There were, as far as Bill knew, only three other wizards who were allowed this far into the main goblin city – and all were curse breakers, like him. They – probably – had also been given assignments or become involved in extra projects that required coming down to the city, if not because the research material was down here, then because the goblin they had to report to was not authorized to go to the higher levels – closer to the bank itself. Or simply did not wish to leave the comfort of the city.

The fact that he’d been allowed to take the oath in the first place had been a testament to how much the goblins liked him as well. While a moderate amount of wizards did work for Gringotts – only about twenty – most didn’t care for the environment, and preferred to stay in the small administrative offices that catered to them.

Bill liked goblins, for all that the rest of his own species regarded them with suspicion and degrading biases. The thing was, Bill had found, that most wizards did not try to understand any part of goblin culture, really. He wasn’t sure if he was just ahead of the curve, or completely out of touch with the normal wizarding population – but Bill felt that he had been brought up to be interested in other cultures vastly different from his own. Though he’d been routinely ostracized for his interest, Arthur Weasley had always enjoyed trying to understand Muggle culture, and Bill had been right along with him. Admittedly, Bill had never been as enthralled with Muggles as his dad was. 

Goblins, as a species and as cohesive society, had thrived longer than wizards. By the time that Hogwarts had been completed, the oldest of the goblin cities had already been several thousand years old – the oldest of them in Wales. What had really interested Bill, aside from goblin history (when not taught by Professor Binns), was their magic. Every aspect of goblin life, all the important bits – births, deaths, marriages, greeting someone on the street, even contracts, etc., were all done in purposeful, multilayered rituals or acts. It was a common held belief, Bill’s trainer had told him, that even the simplest actions held power. Goblin magic was just the same. There were layers upon layers to any spell, discounting the most basic spells, that goblins did. And Bill had always loved puzzles, loved the thrill of solving them. 

Sometimes, depending on the curse he was breaking, it felt like he was trying to learn how to pick locks with his dad in the garden shed when he was seven all over again. Curse breaking old goblin spells was much more fun though. If you weren’t careful, tried to force the spell, or missed a layer – well, goblin magic had a tendency to _bite back_. 

The goblin city beneath Gringotts had actually given the Wizarding bank its name. Gringotts was simply the human’s warped version of the name of the city that had existed under London since before the founders of Hogwarts had been children. The name of the city was – in the goblin language – Grzngocz. Humans had never been able, or perhaps willing, to pronounce it correctly. So, the hole in the ground eventually became known as Gringotts. 

The whole city was designed around one central cavern, a rough egg-shape miles deep and miles wide. Around the cavern were circles – like platforms. They started narrowly at the top, and then grew wider and more enclosed as they went down. They were lit by stones that glowed – Bill had no idea where they had been mined, but they gave off more light than a simple “Lumos” spell ever would have, and radiated warmth. The air was, at any point, cool and damp, or dry and warm. There was no real sense of time other than that the lights would dim at “nighttime” and grow stronger at “daytime”. Of course, the cavern was not the whole city – Grzngocz spread beneath London - but it was the main part. 

Bill had spent a decent portion of his day researching in one of the goblin libraries, which were amazing in and of themselves. Even better were some of the goblin cafes in some of the centermost rings. Goblin food tended to be delicious – mushroom heavy and rich – as long as you avoided the dishes with earthworms in them. Goblins, like the rest of the world, also seemed to have been seduced by coffee. The goblins had their own version – Bill had never been brave enough to ask what went into it – but it tasted quite a bit like chocolate, and lacked some of the bitterness. He’d come to the café after researching because he’d been summoned to a meeting, a proposed project that he as of yet knew nothing about. It was with one of the supervisors of the goblin curse breakers, Bill hadn’t met this one, he only seemed to work on the goblin side of things – and Bill wasn’t entirely sure why he’d been summoned – there was at least one curse breaker who was more senior that could have been called upon. 

It was making him a bit nervous, to be honest. Then again, more than a few things had begun to make him nervous in the past few weeks.  As far as he could remember, every goblin that he had ever met, almost without exception, had been stoic, and not easily startled. They had to be – clans pitted themselves against each other all the time. The last few weeks though, there had been an undercurrent of anxiety across all levels of goblin society. Not that the goblins would say anything to him, of course; for all that he was trusted, Bill was still a human, and a wizard. 

Against his own conscious judgment, Bill’s training as an information gatherer during the Second War with Voldemort had started kicking in. Though he was obviously an outsider to the goblins, the sole human in this section of the city – Bill had been keeping his ears very much open. 

From what he could tell, there had been a scandal involving money – which was of course the concern of goblins everywhere – but this time someone, or as Bill gathered, several someone’s, had died because of it. And they had not been trial executions.  That worried Bill. Goblins – apart from wars or clan skirmishes – did not murder other goblins. It made Bill’s stomach churn. Goblin society was harsh, certainly, but multiple deaths? Someone had gone off the deep end. 

And then there was the matter of the fact that a senior goblin for one of the clans -  who worked closely with curse breakers - had gone missing. Or what Bill thought was missing – he’d seen the search parties in the outskirts of the city. It was also probable – though unlikely – that this goblin might have taken it upon himself to go missing voluntarily. 

Bill kept all of these thoughts to himself, locked tight in his head, until he could unload them safely. There was no one in wizarding world that he could report this to – and it was almost certain that the Daily Prophet hadn’t gotten this news, or it would have been on the front page. There was, however, another source he could report to, who might be able to do more with it - more than Bill could, at any rate.

Movement caught the corner of Bill’s eye, and he put down the tiny cup of goblin coffee he’d been cradling. A very well dressed goblin had walked into the open air café and was heading in Bill’s direction. Bill stood – he was of lower rank – and bowed, and then bought his superior a coffee. 

Goblin Curse Breaker Superivisor Moragh explained to Bill that this project, should Bill accept it, would be secret from all other cursebreakers. It was, to Bill’s astonishment, a collaboration between all of the clans, and the leaders of Grzngocz. In return, Bill would be given access to research materials beyond what he already had – far beyond – and access to the further subterranean levels of Grzngocz, as long as he was accompanied by a senior goblin cursebreaker – who would more than likely be Moragh herself. The goal of the project was not to break a spell – but to reinforce it. “I don’t understand.” Bill had said. “I am better at breaking spells-”

“But you must know how a spell is built, to break it.” Supervisor Moragh had rasped back. “You will assist us in this only. It is of vital importance to Grzngocz, the clans, and to London itself. As of now, should you accept our offer, you will no longer be working on other Gringotts projects, and your pay will be doubled. Think quickly.”

Bill didn’t have to think. He could already feel the thrill of a large puzzle building within him. “I’ll do it.”

Supervisor Moragh smiled. “As expected.” She dug her hands into her robes, and handed him a contract. “Sign it, but read it carefully.” Bill nodded. It was always wise to read goblin contracts carefully. “And, you will be needing to read this, before you begin work.” Out of her robes, came a book, very old and leather bound – the pages made of vellum rather than paper. She held it out, and Bill took it reverently.

“What is it?” He asked.

“Knowledge.” The Supervisor said simply. “Knowledge that wizards have long ago forgotten. Most wizards, at any rate. You are a forgetful race.”

Bill chose not to rise to the barb. Instead, he read the contract, memorized it, and then signed it. He was due to come back in the next day to take additional oaths. He left for the surface with the book in his hands – tracing the extremely worn inlay in the leather absent mindedly. Something was starting, and he wasn’t sure if he was more excited for it, than worried. He wasn’t sure which was worse. 

* * *

He walked the streets of London – seething with anger. Nothing was going the way that he had planned it. The goblin – Gurzak – had slipped through his grasp yet again. So clever, this goblin, so much quicker to spot his traps. The goblin had run, yes – but he’d thought it wouldn’t take that long to catch such a stubby creature that hadn’t been out of the bank in at least fifty years. He’d underestimated Gurzak. It would not happen again, not soon.

The dockworker had been a bonus, if not the victim he had wanted, not yet. He had been saving the man for later, when all he’d had left were loose ends to tie up. But the dockworker had been easy to find – not knowing anything of the wizarding world, and not knowing to hide. Easy pickings. There were more where he’d come from.   
But he could bide his time. There were others he could go after for now.

Those who thought that they were safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bill Weasley sort of popped into this story, and won't be going away fast - I hadn't meant for him to be in here at all!


	5. Follow the Badgers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Random medical exams, scones, and spray paint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, uh, I'm really sorry for the wait?
> 
> *ducks the thrown tomatoes* 
> 
> To be fair, the chapter is WAY longer than i meant. (Almost 4,000 words.) 5b will probably be the same. 
> 
> Also, go check out my birthday gift by the wonderful Freawaru, called This Great London (link is on previous chapter)! Loosely based on this story, This Great London is a bit of an AU (and also because I havent told her the rest of my plot!) Enjoy!

John slept. His mind empty, no nightmares plaguing him, completely content. If he’d been conscious – he would have exalted in it, he hadn’t slept this comfortably before he’d been sixteen years old.

Naturally, it wasn’t going to last.   
  
The door to his bedroom slammed open. “John!” Yelled a very familiar voice, bellowing in what sounded like Sherlock’s version of a good mood.

John started, realized that it was just Sherlock, and curled back into his cushy bed. “Piss off.”  
  
For that, John got a vicious jab in the ribs from one of Sherlock’s long fingers. John yelped in surprise, grabbing his pillow, sitting up, and throwing himself to the other side of the bed. “Sherlock!” He yelled, trying to get his breathing under control. Sherlock rarely did something like that. “What are you-?”  
  
In the back of his head, London had burst into the back of his head like a battering ram – his alarm causing London to think that something was wrong. The sudden appearence of the city in his mind would give him a headache later, but as soon as it was clear that there was no actual threat, London was gave him the image of a laughing woman. London was laughing at him.  
  
John hurriedly tried to chastise his city, while keeping an eye on Sherlock, who was now leaning with his hands on the bed – at eye level with John.  
  
“I want you to give me a full physical exam.” Sherlock said.  
  
John blinked, going still. His brain processed this for a second, before he snorted. Even London had been completely flummoxed slightly by the comment for a moment. Now the city’s sentience was laughing hard. “I’m sorry?” John said, a smirk flashing across his mouth. This absolutely needed clarification.  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I. Want. You. To. Give. Me. A. Full. Physical. Exam.” He enunciated slowly. “I want to go to the Yard in the morning. We’ve been resting and Lestrade didn’t want us to come back until we were fully rested. Therefore, I need you to confirm that we are well. You'll have to give yourself a full exam as well.”  
  
John shook his head sleepily. “So, you woke me up at – three in the morning, “ he’d checked his wristwatch quickly. “To tell me that you are _voluntarily submitting to a medical exam_. At three in the morning.” He felt the amusement bubbling up in his chest, and a grin sneaking up on his face.  
  
Sherlock’s expression suddenly became wary, clearly amusement wasn’t what he had been expecting. “Yes?”  
  
John grinned in a way that reminded him of London when it was trying to be sneaky. “I want that in writing. Right now. I want that before I even poke at your mouth with a tongue depressor.”  
  
Sherlock sighed dramatically. “For legal purposes?”  
  
John laughed. “No. I’m framing it.” He laughed again at Sherlock’s incredulous expression. “Proof that even you require medical assistance, occasionally. I need it – no one is going to believe me otherwise!”  
  
Sherlock huffed, and then stalked out of John’s bedroom – but didn’t shut the door. John shook his head and crawled out of bed, London still laughing at him in the back of his mind. Though, the laughter was tinged with relief that it had not been anything serious – just Sherlock’s shenanigans. They hadn’t been so lucky in the past. Far too many times in the past. He replaced his pillow to where he had been resting on it – there was no gun beneath it. Not anymore. He hadn’t had a gun out in the open since just after Sherlock’s “death”. Hadn’t trusted himself with it, and it had gone missing sometime after a visit by some of the Warriors. They’d given it back eventually – when Sherlock had been proved living.  
  
 _At least it wasn’t a Death Eater._ He told London, as he searched about for his slippers, his bathrobe, and his kit. _Not that they’d come after me now. They’re all in Azkaban._ He was momentarily distracted by an almost growl from London and a view of just exactly how London had dealt with the last Death Eater who had tried to sneak up on John in his sleep. 

John shook his head to dispel the image of the crushed skull and bones. Though it was hard to discern the exact feelings of London occasionally, there was one expression, full of mixed feelings, that John had learned to associate with London’s protectiveness of “its” John.  
  
John smiled. _I’m ok._ He thought, and mentally hugged the city back. _Thanks to you_. _Mostly._  
  
London showed him a picture of a child blowing a raspberry, and John bit back a chuckle, and walked into the living room. An hour later, John was the proud owner of a freshly signed document, and Sherlock had gotten his first checkup in what must have been years.

Of course, now John was wide awake – there would be no sleeping after dealing with the world’s worst patient.

“Tea?” John asked Sherlock, who was already on his laptop.  
  
“Mmm.” Sherlock simply responded. He was back to simple guttural responses. A sign of normality, at the very least. John went to go put the kettle on, hoping that Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t be too bothered by the noise of the kettle going off.  
  
Tea was a morning ritual for John, he liked the repetition. It was a mindless thing. Put water in the kettle, turn the stove on, put kettle on the stove, then grab teacups, and wait for the water to boil. In the meantime, he checked the tea leaves. The tea was always loose leaf. It was better quality, tasted better, and was usually fresher. It was also easier to see if there was anything off with the leaves this way. Living with Sherlock, just about anything could be contaminated with anything. This, though was something he’d done for years, for different reasons. He sniffed the leaves. They seemed fine, so he dished the tea into the basket in the teapot, and waited for the water to boil. The whole process took less than thirty seconds, requiring no thought on John’s part. He did not notice that Sherlock was watching each of his movements like a hawk.  
  


* * *

Sherlock watched John as unobtrusively as he could. John was much more observant than most people have him credit for – something Sherlock put down to John’s military training. John nearly almost seemed to know when Sherlock was watching him – unless he was distracted, as John was now.  
  
  
True, when he’d woken John up earlier in the morning, it had been because he’d wanted to have an excuse to ensure John would not put up a fuss when Sherlock finally broke the news that he was leaving the flat to go to the Yard for more cases. There was just so long that Sherlock could playact that he was resting – and three days was apparently his limit. His mind needed stimulation.

He also needed to start collecting data on the mystery that was currently making tea in their kitchen.  
  
To gather any sort of data about John, Sherlock could not simply look at his friend and deduce what was needed, like he had done the first time he’d met John. That method only usually worked for information that was recent – at least in the past year and a half. What Sherlock was looking for was too old.  
  
It merely meant that he had to change his tactics. What he was observing John for now was not surface information, but behavior. People’s behaviors changed over time – due to environment or change in situation. His theory was that if he observed John long enough, he would be able to identify behaviors that had been ingrained in John for years – not behaviors that he had learned in the Army, but ones he had learned before that.  
  
It was something Sherlock had never before attempted. It would be interesting.  
  
John shuffled about the kitchen. He took two cups out of the cupboard, put them on the counter by the kettle, and then went to look for the tea. The tea urn – where they had always put their loose leaf tea in, was apparently empty, because John frowned, and then went to look their spare box of tea – there was always a spare box of tea – it was practically a British national trait, to keep a spare box of tea on hand at all times. At the very least, it was a specific trait of John’s.  
  
John took the spare box out – and then did something curious. As a learned behavior, John probably had done it many, many times before, and Sherlock had not noticed it. John looked over every inch of the package – checking that the box was not crushed, that the plastic wrapping was not ripped, and that the seal was not broken. He did it with such attention, which was what made it so unusual. Had it been a general inspection, it would have taken mere seconds. Instead, it took the better part of a minute. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and watched more overtly.

John cracked the seal on the tea, unwrapped the box, and then opened it. Again, he seemed to spend more attention to the tea than was normal. John first examined the loose leaves within the box – and then smelled the tea. He must have been looking at the tea for oddities, for mold – or perhaps for some other substance. It was not confirmable – not at this moment, but the observation held possibilities. It was John’s next action that drew Sherlock’s attention further. John carefully selected one tea leaf, and put it on his tongue. After a few seconds, John nodded to himself, and then started measuring the tea out into the teapot.  
  
Sherlock did not move for a number of seconds. His brain was processing what he’d seen. When John finally returned to the living room, tea cups in hand for the both of them, Sherlock had returned to acting as if he had not been paying attention at all.  
If he so happened to be searching the internet for the words “Hufflepuff” and “poison”, John was none the wiser.

* * *

Henry Knight stood off to the side of the doorstep of 221B Baker street  and mused over the fact that he’d managed to amass more family in three years of standing on a former Army doctor’s doorstep, than he’d ever dreamed of having his entire childhood.  
  
Not blood family, his dad had been the only blood relative he’d ever had. No, Henry had started to think of Watson’s Warrior’s as his own rather large, rather zany, family. And he was loving every second of it. He was never alone anymore – like he had been in his house for years, and years. A large part of him was grateful to Sherlock – and to John, for it. Even if the circumstances had not, initially, been good.    
  
Henry had found his own small calling from the initiation of Watson’s Warriors – one that he intended to keep no matter if the Warriors ever scattered to the four winds. He was going to try and keep them together, for as long as he could. The Warriors had always been a fairly close knit group – they had to be, after spending three years looking after John, and owning a crusade for Sherlock Holmes.  
  
Now that Sherlock was back though, Henry had noticed that there was a small divide within the Warriors. They’d always been there, really, but they’d been more collaborative before Sherlock’s return. Now they seemed to keep to themselves, even if they continued to come to the general meetings (held in a pub that had grown very used to the ragtag, large, groups of people wandering in all day).  
  
So, Henry wanted to fix the divide, if he could. He’d arranged to meet the small group’s leader at 221 this morning. Right now, though, he was on guard duty.  
  
He liked the morning guard duty the best – mainly because he could watch the city waking up. The other reason had to do entirely with Mrs. Hudson. At exactly eight fifteen, Mrs. Hudson opened the door to 221 Baker Street and smiled down at Henry.  
  
“Oh! Good morning Henry! I thought this was your morning in the rotation. Come in, breakfast is ready.”  
  
Henry smiled. “Good morning, Mrs. Hudson. That’s really not necessary.”  
  
Mrs. Hudson shook her head and slapped Henry on the shoulder. “Honestly, you. I’ve been making breakfast for the lot of you since this whole mess started, and you keep trying to refuse me. Come in, this very minute, Henry Knight. Before the scones get cold.”  
  
Henry rocked back and forth on his feet and looked at the ground. “Yes ma’am.” He followed her inside, where he could smell the scones already.  
  
Mrs. Hudson, for all that she hadn’t appreciated that an army – or what seemed like one – had dropped onto her doorstep one evening three years ago, had essentially adopted the entirety of Watson’s Warriors as her own – and that included feeding them. Only breakfast – and occasionally cocoa and biscuits for the night shift. But it was the fact that she went out of her way to do it that counted, and the fact that she cared enough to make everything herself, that really made it special. Most of the Warriors, after tasting her scones, would never miss a meal in Mrs. Hudson’s flat.  
  
This morning was black currant scones. They melted in Henry’s mouth – Mrs. Hudson always seemed to add more butter to the scones than was necessary – not that Henry was complaining. Mrs. Hudson set a mug full of tea by his elbow – good strong tea, the type John bought because it seemed to come in industrial strength – and sat down across from him.  
  
“How long are you on today?” Mrs. Hudson asked, warming her hands around her china mug.  
  
Henry shook his head. “Not long, actually. I’m meeting Frank Keane around eight forty. I think he’s got his own little group doing things for the Warriors, but I don’t actually know what.”  
  
Mrs. Hudson frowned, thinking. “Frank is a harmless lad.” Anyone younger than Mrs. Hudson was apt to be called a “lad” or a “lass” by the landlady. Frank must have been in his late forties. “But I’ll admit, I think he sometimes has his own roster, in his head. He’s been coming to his regular shifts, of course, but it feels, occasionally… oh, I don’t know.” Mrs. Hudson waved her thoughts away. “He knew John, you know, when they were both young.”  
  
Henry looked up in surprise. “He did?”  
  
Mrs. Hudson nodded and hummed her acknowledgement. “Yes. Apparently, they had gone to the same school – not at the same time, but he’d known of John, and then met John when he was in London. I assume that was when John was studying in London, but I am not entirely sure.”  
  
Henry bit into another scone, thinking it over. “I’ll have to ask him then.”  
  
“There could be a few of them.” Mrs. Hudson mused. “You know, who knew John before all this. If Frank has his own little core group, it might be from that.”  
  
Henry paused. “Like, all from that same school? That’s a bit improbable, isn’t it?”  
  
“It is a bit.” Mrs. Hudson said, embarrassed. “Don’t mind me. It was just a thought.” She looked at the clock. “You’d best be ready to go, dear. It’s nearly eight thirty.” She got up and started rummaging in the kitchen.  
  
Henry, quick as a flash, took out a five pound note, folded it, and when Mrs. Hudson’s back was turned, slipped the bill under the sugar bowl. Mrs. Hudson had always refused payment from the Warriors for the meals that she provided – for anyone who wandered in really, including quite a few individuals from the homeless network. Soon, someone had realized that if Mrs. Hudson didn’t automatically see the money – if it was hidden under the sugar bowl, for example – they could pay her and leave before she knew it. Mrs. Hudson had gotten wise to the tactic ages ago, but hadn’t fully stopped them because it did enable her to keep feeding them. Occasionally the Warriors would help by stocking her pantry themselves.  
  
Mrs. Hudson turned back around with a paper bag full of scones and held them out for Henry to take. “These are for Frank.” She said. “Don’t you eat any yourself.” She gave him a pointed look, and Henry tried to make himself look innocent. He still got the bag from her.  
  
When he stepped back out of two twenty one Baker Street, Frank was already waiting for him. In his mid-forties, Frank Keane was already fairly eccentric. He stood at about six foot three, with salt and pepper hair, a yellow and black scarf looped around his neck over a very long coat that had seen better days. But he was chatting with some other warriors that had shown up while Henry had been speaking with Mrs. Hudson. It was his smile that attracted people to Frank. It was wide, honest, and infectious.  He was using it now – the three Watson’s Warriors that he was talking to were laughing uproariously. He waved them off when Henry stopped out and smiled widely at him.  
  
“Mr. Knight!” He practically yelled – raising his arms wide. “Good morning!” He spotted Mrs. Hudson over Henry’s shoulder and bowed, arms still stretched wide, still smiling. “Mrs. Hudson.”  
  
Henry handed over the packet of scones, which Frank practically hugged to himself – He must have guessed that it was full of Mrs. Hudson’s baking. “Good morning Frank.” Henry put his hands in his pockets, now that he was free of his burden.  
  
“Henry here is spending the day with me.” Frank said cheerfully. “Hopefully, I’ll be able to keep him entertained.” He looked at Henry. “Ready to go?”  
Henry nodded. “I’ll see you later Mrs. Hudson.”  
  
“Of course dear.” She nodded that the two of them. “I want both of you back here for dinner, am I clear?”  
  
“Yes Mrs. Hudson.” They chorused, and then grinned at each other as Mrs. Hudson shooed them away. Not one Watson’s Warrior dared to cross the elderly landlady, or make her upset. John Watson came after you if Mrs. Hudson cried.  
  
Frank led Henry away from two twenty one Baker Street. Frank took out a scone and handed it to Henry. “So, Mr. Knight.” He said, biting into a scone himself. “What did you want to know?”  
  
Henry blinked. He’d not broadcast the real reason he’d wanted to talk to Frank. He’d obviously not been discrete enough. Suddenly the scone in his mouth felt a little dry. “Well…” He started.  
  
Frank finished his scone and threw his arm over Henry’s shoulder. “You know what. Tell me later.” Frank said. “Why don’t I show you what I do, instead. That way you can meet some of the other Watson’s Warriors who joined with me.”  
  
Henry nodded, almost relieved. “Sounds good to me.”  
  
Frank smiled at him, kindly, his arm still around Henry. “And I will make sure that you are back to Mrs. Hudson safe and sound. She’s a bit protective of you.”  
Henry, embarrassed, tried to deny it, but Frank squeezed his shoulder, and let him go. “It’s alright. She’s a bit protective of Sherlock and John as well.” He shrugged. “John needs a bit of looking after, to be honest.”  
  
That, Henry could agree with. Watching the former army doctor who’d helped him slowly deteriorate over three years had been horrible enough, so close to what Henry himself had been through, even if Watson’s Warriors had helped John quite a bit.  
  
Frank pulled Henry down a side street. “Come on.”  
  
Twenty minutes later, Frank had led Henry in what seemed like a merry weave through London’s back alleys, over fences and through back gardens. Henry hadn’t even known most of this had existed – but someone from the Warriors obviously did, because, like hiking trails, the way was marked with spots of yellow paint.  
  
They stopped occasionally, on their route, to wherever they were going, in order for Frank to tag places, or to retouch old tags. Like the little flecks of yellow paint that were like small trail signs, some of the tags that Frank was retouching seemed like trail markers. They were curiously designed. They were yellow – that much was familiar – but the tag wasn’t the familiar “We are Watson’s Warriors”. This tag, was of a rough badger shape, the letters WW looped beneath them. It was clear that Frank had done it before.  
  
“So,” Henry asked hesitantly as Frank tagged the second badger of the morning. “Where are we going exactly?”

Frank smiled, added a final touch, and then stepped away. “A few of us have a hide out, here in London. One of John’s old hideouts, actually. He hasn’t actually been there in years, but he knows about it. We’ve put it to use again. Most of the Warriors haven’t seen it actually.” Frank admitted.  
  
Henry frowned. “Why keep it a secret?” Part of him wanted to also ask why John Watson would even have a hideout, let alone multiple hideouts – except maybe for the times that he wanted to be a whole city away from Sherlock Holmes.  
  
Frank opened his mouth to answer, and then must have thought better of what he originally had planned to say, and then gave Henry a shrewd glance. “What did Mrs. Hudson tell you about me?”  
  
Henry tried not to look outwardly alarmed. When had he become so transparent? “Sh- she told me that you were friends with John, ages ago.”  
  
Frank nodded, and seemed a little relieved by the answer. “It’s true. John and I met in school. A long, long time ago.” He shrugged. “And then we were…we came to London. John first, me later. We met, and, as they say, the rest is history.” He smiled at the badger that he’d just spray painted on the wall. “We’d better get a move on.” He said, putting his spray paint can away for the moment. “Otherwise we’ll miss lunch, and we still have spots to visit.”  
  
Henry nodded in acknowledgement, and then looked around. “So, which way?”  
  
Frank pointed to the building opposite them. Henry searched the façade for what he was supposed to be looking for, and saw another painted badger. He glanced back at Frank.  
  
“Just follow the badgers.” Frank said with a shrug. Henry snorted with laughter, but hunched his coat closer over his small frame, and led the way.

  
  
  
  



	6. The Plot Thickens (Pun Intended?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock starts putting together clues - possibly about John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Urg! Finally I can post this chapter! The Warriors weren't cooperating, until now. Hope you enjoy the chapter. Thanks again to my lovely beta.

 

For the first time, the Internet had failed him. Sherlock nearly slammed his laptop shut in annoyance. The word “Hufflepuff” was either very old, or too obscure for a distinct definition. On the web, there were very few references for what, exactly, a Hufflepuff was, or where the term had originated. There was a town in Wales with a name that loosely translated to “Hufflepuff’s Sett”, and a community on LiveJournal full of people who claimed that they were classmates in “Hufflepuff House” – which fit what he knew of John, but did not list the name of the school. None of the posts mentioned it either. That alone was maddening, but it was only Sherlock’s first attempt, he had time to dig deeper.  
  
As for poisons, there were a whole host that John could have been poisoned with – strychnine, arsenic, ricin, abrin, common poisons among hosts of more uncommon ones. Unfortunately there was no real way to figure out what with – if – John had ever been poisoned without more data, which Sherlock didn’t have. He wasn’t even fully certain that John had ever been poisoned in the first place. John merely could be that careful about the quality of their tea.   
  
Sherlock drew in a breath, long and slow, pursing his lips in annoyance. John had gone upstairs to take a shower, and had not displayed a single other habitually learned behavior. It shouldn’t be bothering him so much, after all, it was the first day of observation. 

He would have to go to a library. Libraries were his last resort. But the Hufflepuff references were too old to be found anywhere else. The image of that little pin of John’s still burned in his mind. At least this was a case – which wasn’t really a case - that would only get him in trouble with John, not Lestrade or the Yard.

Frustrated, he put his laptop aside and threw himself out of his armchair. His failure to gather information about John was bothering him more than he had expected.  But he also had real work to get along with, actual crimes to occupy his mind – as soon as he convinced Lestrade to give him some. Otherwise they’d have to go on that onerous route of interviewing potential clients again – and that had been horrifying. Occasionally amusing, but ultimately horrifying.

Sherlock crossed to the window and looked down at Baker Street in its all of its bustle. He wanted to be out there, running through the streets. That was where he belonged. Not cooped up. He watched as the familiar forms of men and women – many of them members of Watson’s Warriors – walked up and down the street, patrolling. Sherlock allowed his mouth to twitch, just slightly.

He knew a select group of the Warriors by now – though he was slightly ashamed to admit that he wasn’t able to tell who they were from a distance individually. It was those shapeless, ostentatious scarves, with that vivid –

The thought connected in Sherlock’s brain with violent force.

_Yellow and black.The scarves were yellow and black. Like the Hufflepuff pin._

_Both the pin and the scarves – and Watson’s Warrior’s – were associated with John._

He needed to find out where the idea for the scarves had come from. There wasn’t necessarily a connection between any of his clues, other than the simple colors of the pin and the scarves. Really, the connection between John, the pin, and the scarves, was tenuous at best. It could have been a simple coincidence, but something in the recesses of his mind told him that it wasn’t.

If the scarves, and their colors, were symbolic of the Hufflepuff pin, then they had to also have had a connection to John – and John’s childhood.

It was also highly unlikely that the majority of the Warriors knew about the origin of the scarves, or their possible connection to John. Sherlock pressed his lips together, thinking. To find out more, he would have to watch the Warriors carefully - not for those who didn’t know, but for those who did, and then ask the right Warrior.

More than likely, anyone in the know would have an overt familiarity with John – someone from his past, who he would have obviously known. It was possible that this person (persons?) would respond to the same – or to similar – habitual actions that John did. But what childhood involved symbols, or was strange enough that people would come out in droves to start a movement in that person’s name? He didn’t know what sort of childhood John had had at any rate. A stable one, early on, certainly. That was evidenced by the fact that John seemed to be trying to recreate that stability with a woman (all of those dates! It was ridiculous!). Whatever had changed that, had been enough to drive Harriet Watson to drink (it was one of a number of possible causes, admittedly).

There would be absolutely no bribing of any Warrior’s to watch John’s companions for him. Even the homeless network had become oddly loyal to the Warriors, making them incorruptible towards the grassroots organization that had given them purpose and a support network.

The whirring of Sherlock’s mind was interrupted only when John came clattering down the stairs from the third floor, smiling gently at Sherlock when he turned.

“Ready to go?” John asked. 

* * *

_Follow the Badgers_.

Simple advice. Henry thought. Easier said than done, really. The badger tags were never the same size, or facing one way. The direction that the badger’s snout was facing, apparently, indicated the direction that they were supposed to go. Henry had been forced to figure this out himself, as Frank refused to give him any direction at all. Admittedly, Frank did stop grinning at him occasionally – from where he was walking a few paces back -  to steer Henry in the right direction when Henry had gone the wrong way. They were moving at a decently paced clip – Frank kept them moving, and Henry had caught him looking over his shoulder once or twice – as if to make sure that they were not being followed. 

The last three years had been a singular education in the rooftops, alleyways and tunnels of London. Even with all of that, Henry was having trouble identifying where he was going, after a bit. He’d been so turned about, looking for the badger signs, and deeper into what seemed to be a maze in the center of London. Or what he thought was the center of London. Nothing was recognizable – actual street signs had vanished three streets back, and his sense of where things were, was now entirely skewed. The stone buildings that hemmed them in seemed too old to even exist in modern London.There had also been a moment in which, at the intersection of a set of alleyways, Henry had gotten the oddest feeling that he was stepping over an invisible border of some sort. There had been nothing there, of course, and Frank hadn’t seemed to feel it, but Henry had felt as if someone had both run chilled fingers down his spine while electrocuting it. Not painful, but disconcerting.

There was also the fact that they hadn’t yet encountered many people. London a world class city – it was teeming with people, there should have been more about than the four or five they’d passed while walking. Two of the people who’d passed by had been in normal business attire, but one had been wearing this odd sort of robe, and the other a dress that looked as if it belonged in the Victorian era. Frank, apparently used to the oddities, had taken his hat off to both. They’d bowed politely back to Frank, but had eyed Henry warily, and it had made him uncomfortable. Henry had just been able to smile reassuringly at them before Frank had nudged him to keep moving.

“Are we there yet?” Henry asked eventually, no flippancy in his voice. He felt as if he was lost, and he was getting fairly tired. Mrs. Hudson’s scones seemed ages ago.

Frank unceremoniously pulled him around a tight right corner. “See for yourself.” He said, and pointed with the brim of his hat, to the building at the far side of the dead end he’d led Henry into. Frank seemed more energetic than he had been at the beginning of their wild goose chase.

This building in front of them, like the others around it, was of old, grey stone. It was dirty, but was obviously not neglected, someone making a half-hearted attempt to see to its upkeep. On the wall facing them was a large, detailed version of the badger tag that they had been following, the nose of the badger formed by a small, round window. A door was where one of the badger’s paws should have been.The paint was new, the same yellow that was used for all the other tags glinting on the wall, except someone had painted the stripes in with black and white paint. There was a wooden sign jutting out from the wall as well, in some resemblance to every pub Henry had ever been to - though Henry couldn’t read the sign itself, as it was sideways.

Frank threw his arm over Henry’s shoulders again, jolting the younger man from his staring. Frank took off his hat, and pointed towards the building. “That, my dear Henry, is where John Watson and I misspent a large portion of our teenage years.” Frank replaced his hat. “Well, one place, at the very least.”

Henry blinked at him, a thousand questions bubbling in his brain. “You did what?” He asked. Frank he could see having misspent his youth. John? No so much. 

Frank seemed to ignore the question, but face became grim for one, brief moment, and then it was gone, replaced by the smile that he’d carried previously. He pulled Henry forward, towards the badger-edifice. “Come on.”

Henry held back. “What is this place?”

Frank grinned widely. “This? This is the legendary Badger’s Sett. No place in London is this cozy, or has better company, I promise you.” 

Frank’s answer really told him nothing. Henry was a mite annoyed, but did not have a chance to voice his objection, because they were already at the door.

The guard at the door knew who Frank was, smiled when he saw the older Warrior approaching. He had the familiar yellow Watson’s Warriors scarf wrapped around his neck, but Henry did not recognize him.

“Frank! I would have thought that you’d have fallen off of a building using that sodding spray paint by now.” The guard looked Henry over a little more warily than Henry had expected from a member of Watson’s Warriors, as Frank guffawed. “And who’s this?”

“This is Henry Knight, who is one of the organizers of Watson’s Warriors at Baker Street. I’m introducing him to our little group.”

The guard beamed, the wary look disappearing, even as he continued to stand in front of the doorway. “Nice to meet you.” His eyes flickered to Frank’s face. “I’ll just make sure the others know we have a guest.”

Henry could feel his eyebrows raise. That was a bit more secretive than he’d anticipated. Frank rolled his eyes, but seemed to accept it. “Fine, but quick, yeah? We’re hungry!”

The guard smirked, but nodded acceptance, and slipped inside the Badger’s Sett. The sound coming from the inside, from when the door was open briefly, was raucous.

Henry glanced over to Frank, whose smile was back at full force, and once again, directed at him. “Relax Henry.”

Henry nodded, but didn’t feel much like relaxing. What he wanted to do was to interrogate Frank. This wasn’t exactly the time or the place, but it would have been nice. 

The guard came back out within a few minutes. “Come on in.” He winked at Henry. “Try not to have too good a time, I don’t want to be carrying you home.”

Henry opened his mouth to reply – but Frank pushed him through the now open door of the Badger’s Sett.

His first impression of the Sett was of a large, comfortable room, with the air of a pub – without the cliché kitsch lining the yellow walls.

The second thing that Henry noticed, was that the raucous noise had disappeared. Instead, fifteen or so men and women were sitting at a long table in the center of the room, all quiet, and all staring at him. 

Which was only fair, he was staring at them. Most of the people staring at him were his age or older, none of the younger members of the Warriors here – at Baker Street, some of the members were just under eighteen. Half of these people looked as if they had raided a thrift shop, and the other half looked like they had tagged along, but only to accessorize their already bright selection of clothes. Every single one of them was wearing something with the same yellow and black design of Watson’s Warriors kit – but not necessarily scarves. A girl parched on the left end of the table was wearing black and yellow striped stockings. A man in the middle had dyed his hair, one half yellow, the other black. And, as if in imitation of John’s famous striped jumper, one man had an overly large knit yellow and black striped jumper that was much too big for him. All had shaggy hair of various lengths. It was almost as if they were trying to dress normally, but didn’t really know how. Though, a few of them would mix very nicely with a punk band. There was an interesting thought, Henry mused for a moment, a Watson’s Warrior’s band. He pushed the strange thought aside and straightened up. 

He felt like they were looking at him for oddities too, as if they were two different cultures encountering each other for the first time. There was nothing more important than first impressions. Henry smiled. “Hello.”

Frank’s hand thumped onto one of his shoulders. “Well?” He asked the group at the table. “This is Henry, he helps run the Baker Street division, and knows our John well.” After a moment of further silence, when Henry was thoroughly visually examined, Frank asked incredulously. “Where are your manners? Kneazle got your tongues?.”

Henry kept his eyes on the group, but wanted to look in confusion at Frank. What was a Kneazle?

The girl with the striped tights went red, and then snorted, and that appeared to break the tension. She winked at Henry. “Sorry, we’re not used to visitors, luv. We won’t bite if you won’t.” The others laughed. Henry had to smile, a bit nervously even he had to admit, back.

“I won’t. I promise.” He said, and it came out more sincerely than he’d intended it to.

Frank pushed him towards the table, and suddenly there were a number of hands patting him on the back, pulling him closer, murmurs of welcome that Henry tried to acknowledge individually. Someone pulled over a chair, Henry was less unceremoniously shoved into it, between striped sweater and a woman with dangly yellow and black earrings. The man acted first, pushing a plate with what looks like a pork pie towards him, and signals for someone to get him a drink. 

“I’m Alberforth.” Striped sweater said with a smile, reaching out to take Henry’s hand to shake it. “The lovely lady down the end was Leticia. This is Rosamund. You already know Frank.”

Frank took a seat near striped tights – Leticia. She saw Henry looking and winked. Henry colored and looked back to Alberforth.

“Ever had Fire Whisky lad?” Alberforth, brown hair dangling into his eyes, asked.

Henry looked around. They all seemed to be anticipating his answer. Frank just nodded at him, telling Henry to answer, and presumably, accept the drink.

Henry turned back to Alberforth. “What’s Fire Whisky?”

* * *

Before Sherlock’s supposed dive from the roof of St. Bart’s, John and Sherlock’s walk through New Scotland Yard would generally be ignored, because no one had wanted to speak to the Freak and his doctor.

These days, they couldn’t move five feet without being stopped and spoken to. Which was both a blessing and a curse, really. John enjoyed chatting. Sherlock tended to get annoyed, quickly. And when Sherlock became annoyed, Scotland Yard became a lot less friendly. That, at the very least, had stayed the same.

These days, Sherlock allowed John twenty minutes of chat time, and then John was quite unceremoniously yanked in the direction of Lestrade’s office. Most of the Yard just watched in amusement. Today, John had just enough time to tell one of the constables to stop by Baker Street so that John could take a look at a healing injury, before Sherlock hauled him off.

“For goodness’ sake Sherlock, what is the hurry?” He asked, straining to keep up. He waved at a few other officers, and stuffed a piece of paper one of the officers handed him into a pocket of his jeans as fast as he could – or he’d lose it.

“Bored.” Sherlock replied, dragging John by the sleeve of his jacket. 

“I wasn’t!” John said, but didn’t fight it. Though they’d done this before, so John wasn’t entirely too concerned that his sleeve would tear. It was his only good coat, and he didn’t want to buy another just yet.

“They’re all boring John.” Sherlock replied, drawling. As if John should have already known that.

John rolled his eyes, and thankfully didn’t need to quip back (which could have started an argument, and he didn’t want one this morning), because Greg had apparently been warned they were coming. As they approached his bare-bones office, Greg was already waiting for them, leaning against the door jam, file folder in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. For all that he looked exhausted to John’s eyes, Greg must have gotten some sort of rest and some new clothes within the time period they’d seen him last. The doctor in John approved. Greg looked in better spirits too, judging from the amusement in his eyes when Greg saw Sherlock leading him down the hallway. 

“Two days.” Greg smirked at Sherlock, who’d stopped a mere six inches from him, glaring him down. Sherlock still hadn’t let go of John’s sleeve. “Not a peep from 221B. The city’s criminals thought that something bad was brewing and all practically hid. I can’t imagine what would have happened to cause that. Well, no. I can think of many reasons. Most of them implausible or improbable – and most of them you’d never let John do. Which leads me to a single option, and the question that I most want the answer to this morning. Did you drug him John? If yes, please continue doing it.”

John laughed, and Sherlock’s nostril’s flared. “I’m saving that for when he becomes unbearable.”

“You mean he’s not already?”

Sherlock had had enough of this and rolled his eyes. “I want a case.”

“You.”Lestrade said, drawing out the word. “Can’t have one.”

“John’s has cleared me. I’m fine. I want cases.”

“You said you only wanted one case.” Greg retorted, and then moved away from Sherlock, going down the hall. “And I’m still not going to give you one.” He called back.

They followed Greg. Sherlock followed close behind anyway, John felt as if he was just along for the ride. Which he was, essentially, but the pace was slower. 

“Why?” Sherlock demanded in a hiss. Greg just kept moving through the hallways.

John trailed after them, and wondered blithely if he could break away at some point and seek out Molly. These two clearly didn’t need him at the moment, and it had been some time since he’d had a good, proper chat with the pathologist at St. Bart’s.

“Because you just got off a string of them.”Lestrade replied. “And I’m tired. And while you may seem not to be tired, you probably are. John might have cleared you, but I want you fully rested. Which means, barring something coming up, no cases. You need to go and find your own. Besides. If you really aren’t tired, I can honestly guarantee that John, like the rest of us mere mortals, must be exhausted.”

Sherlock turned to stare with narrow eyes at John, examining his friend from head to toe. He said nothing, but turned back to follow Lestrade. Even slower than he had been, before. John wanted to grin. 

“I still want a case.”

“I said no. Go find your own.”

“What case are you working on right now?”

“You are not working on this case Sherlock. Besides,” Lestrade said, leading them down the stairs towards the morgue. “It’s a simple murder. You’d solve it in five minutes, and then you’d be bored again. Not worth it.”

Sherlock snorted. “I’d rather be the judge of that.” John was trying to bite back laughter. Even if Sherlock was a terror when bored, John liked listening to the banter between Sherlock and the detective inspector. Sherlock was still a terror, and Greg just liked to tease him.

As they approached the morgue, John could hear raised voices – and if he hadn’t known that New Scotland Yard Medical Examiner sometimes called Molly in to compare notes on cases (or when they were a touch overworked) – John would have been surprised to hear Molly’s voice coming from the New Scotland Yard morgue.

They turned the corner into the morgue. Molly and Anderson were standing over a body. Either Molly had already done her inspection of his insides, or hadn’t started yet, because the man’s chest wasn’t open. Whoever it was had been a burly man, and probably the dock worker that Greg had told John about in the pub the night before. 

Molly was red faced and angry, the red in splotches all over her face. John fought the urge to immediately go to her side and defend her from Anderson. It wasn’t just a “male defending the damsel in distress” reaction. He’d done it before, when he was younger, when they’d both been younger. But he’d also learned not to mess with Molly. Her fists were clenched and she was glaring at Anderson as if she would lunge over the corpse and hit the forensics man. It was probably why Anderson wasn’t too concerned – if there wasn’t a corpse between them, there was a remote chance that Molly might hit him, depending on what he said.

She’d gained a reputation for being exceedingly clever recently, and devious to boot. It helped that she’d both dated and broken up with Jim Moriarty. A lot of people looked at her differently because of that now that they knew how much of a monster he’d been. Added to that was the fact that she had been instrumental in helping to fake Sherlock’s death – something that no one had ever thought her capable of. It had given her a confidence boost.

The expression on Anderson’s face was caught between a sneer and confusion. His arms were crossed and had opened his mouth to say something to the already enraged Molly when they three of them crossed the threshold. Both he and Molly stopped and looked at them. Well, at Greg really.

“Anderson.” Greg began. “I expected your report last night. What’s the bloody hold up?”

“I know-“ Anderson began, but was cut off by Molly.

“We can’t determine the murder weapon used to kill this man.” Molly said.

That wasn’t unusual. Unless the weapon was found at the scene, the pathologist would be required to give a guess as to what might have been used – and was normally correct – but there were cases in which Molly had no idea.

“And I think it was a knife.” Anderson sneered.

“No knife would make these marks so smoothly or precisely!” Molly nearly yelled in frustration. “There would be tearing of the flesh because of the blade, different depths of penetration with a knife.” She gestured wildly to the body between them. “It was almost as if whatever the killer used cut through this man as if he was butter.”

John felt his eyebrows come together. He had no idea what would do that. From the look on Anderson’s face, he didn’t have a clear argument against Molly’s logic, and Greg was sometimes more likely to trust Molly’s judgment rather than Anderson’s. He didn’t cut in, but from Molly’s description, it was unlikely to have been a knife, unless it was specialized. 

Sherlock stalked over to the body, and started examining. Molly moved aside without protest, though Anderson did not, opting instead to watch Sherlock at his work. John crept forward as well, so that he was standing shoulder to shoulder with Greg, and a decent view of the examination.

It was as if someone had used his man for butchery practice. His body was fairly intact, though barely. There were long cuts across every part of his torso, deep in some places. The longest went through his right side collarbone, down through his chest almost to his stomach. It missed the man’s heart, barely. If the man had been alive afterwards for the rest of the cutting – and John hoped that he hadn’t been – it had probably been akin to torture. Not quite the simple murder that Greg had billed it as.

Sherlock straightened up after a moment. “I agree with Molly.” He announced, but his eyebrows were furrowed, just as they usually were when Sherlock encountered a puzzle he hadn’t quite solved yet. “These slices are much too fluid.” He turned to twitch his lips triumphantly at Lestrade. “I believe you said something about not giving me a case?”

Greg groaned and covered his face with his file folder while Anderson spluttered in denial. Molly just looked smug.

John was having a different reaction entirely. He’d seen cuts like that before – though not for fifteen years. Molly wouldn’t have had cause to see anything like them. Anderson either for that matter. John felt a sudden foreboding begin to boil within the pit of his stomach, and London stirring at the unease in his mind.

He knew that spell well, he’d seen it used more than once.

John sighed internally and started a mental countdown to see how many days it would take for the Aurors to show up. With any luck, he’d be too busy to see them. 

  



	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello darlings! To assuage you, and boxesofboxes, I offer this next chapter of The Master of London to prove that I am not, in fact, dead! I just moved! Therefore life was hectic for a time and the fic took a bit of a backseat. 
> 
> In other news, MoL (Master of London) has spawned a bit of a side project in collaboration with my beta Laughing_Phoenix, which will actually be a HUGE part of this fic later.
> 
> As such, I am putting out a call for talented artists and writers (basically all of you, you wonderful, brilliant lot!) who like this story, have a desire for SPOILERS, and want to be a wonderful person. Like Watson's Warriors, only in fandom.
> 
> If you choose to participate, as a thank you, your penname or other alias of choice will be used as the codename of a Watson's Warriors in Master of London. Those contributing four or more pieces will receive a drabble set in either the Master of London universe, Harry Potter, or Sherlock, written by myself or my beta, Laughing_Phoenix.
> 
> You will naturally, retain the rights to your work. I just want to link to them, (you’ll see why!) If you’re interested, please, please, send me a message or leave a comment for more info.

* * *

  
Sherlock glared at photos of the dockworker’s autopsy that Molly had copied for him. While he could have simply taken pictures on his cell phone, there was something ultimately satisfying about eight by twelve sized glossy photographs tacked to the mantelpiece. 

Molly had been absolutely correct in her assessment that the cuts on the dockworker’s torso were much too fluid. Not in the sense that the weapon had sliced quickly and evenly, but in that the weapon had seemingly met no resistance whatsoever in its passage through the body – which was impossible.

The human body was matter – flesh, muscle and bone. It was designed evolutionarily to be difficult to wound. A normal knife would have encountered a moderate amount of resistance – at the very least, it would have torn and bruised the skin as it entered and passed through flesh. When it encountered bone, a knife with enough force behind it might have breached bone. If the stab went deep enough, perhaps nicking the bone was possible, chipping the bone, or causing the knife to break within the body (but only if the bone density was high enough). Even simply glancing off the bone was within the realm of plausibility, and it had been documented before. None of this was the case here.  Whatever weapon had been used on the dockworker, there was a high probability that if it was a knife at all, it was not a conventional knife.  Whatever it was, it had cut through bone as if it was as malleable as butter, and cleanly at that. 

There were, of course, certain implements on the market that theoretically could have caused wounds like this. But there were none so precise, nor as deep on the initial cut (which seemed to be multiple at the same time – another impossibility), or as easy to use. There was an additional complication to consider – to use any of these implements, the object in question would have to be stationary at the time of the initial cut– the dockworker had certainly not been, at least, not at first.

All of the potential weapons would have also been noisy, and required an external power source.

The whole problem was preposterous – and brilliant. Sherlock could feel the excitement building in his own mind. This was something new, something no one had ever seen before. Or at the very least, something he had not seen before. Either way, it was exciting. He would need to focus on one aspect of the case first. Just one, and the weapon of choice was not it. Not yet. He needed more data. 

* * *

While Sherlock was managing to wrangle himself onto the dock worker’s case, Molly had tuned out Sherlock’s bickering with Lestrade. What she had concentrated on instead, was John’s face.

As soon as he’d seen the wounds on the dockworker, John’s face had frozen, gone blank. Completely serene. To anyone who didn’t know him well, John would be portraying complete ambivalence to what was going on around him. He’d been a soldier, he’d seen death before, and he was probably waiting for Sherlock to drag him about on the new case. That same expression, to those in the know, meant that John knew something, and it was important enough that he felt the need to hide it.

Molly had a slight inkling as to what John might have noticed. The wounds on the dockworker were not consistent with any conventional weapon she’d ever seen. But she had actually seen wounds like this before. The weapon that had caused those wounds then was nothing that she’d ever hoped to see again. It was not common, nor indeed was it Muggle in origin. The spell itself was something she had actively tried to forget, though she would never, thankfully, be able to cast it herself. There were some advantages to being a Squib, and once in a while not being able to actually do magic was one of them.  

At the sight of John’s mysteriously blank face, Molly’s suspicions were confirmed. This was a wizard-on-Muggle murder. Internally, she winced. The Ministry clamped down on this kind of case – heavy-handedly Obliviating the Muggles who’d come in contact with the case. They believed that the Muggles directly interfered with the Statute of Secrecy. While in some cases, they did, sometimes they did not, but the Ministry treated them equally, just in case. Molly would not be looking forward to the twitchy wand hands of the Aurors who were bound to come visiting. They couldn’t actually Obliviate her, legally, because she was aware of the Wizarding world, a card-carrying Squib with legal protections. And they needed her information. That wasn’t to say that anyone hadn’t tried to Obliviate her before and might not try again anyway.

John had stayed in the doorway, his gaze lingering on the corpse that Molly should have already been putting away, as Sherlock and Lestrade left the New Scotland Yard morgue. Internally, Molly sighed as she watched him. She knew full well what he looked like when he was facing a problem that was probably going to take a long time to fix – and dear goodness the man did try even if the problem wasn’t his to fix.

“John.” She said gently, breaking the silence of the morgue.

John looked up sharply. “Yes? Sorry, I –“

“You were miles away. I know, I could tell.” Molly smiled. “John, we need to talk.” She glanced at the dead dockworker. “About this. We need a plan, just in case.” 

John nodded, more alert. “We do.” His forehead furrowed. She knew why. They’d only had this happen a few times, when they we both involved, a wizard-on-Muggle crime, or vice versa. Even with the fact that they had to deal with the Statute of Secrecy almost every waking moment, it still felt wrong. As if they were planning something horrendous.

“We can meet at that Starbucks, the one a few streets away? As soon as you can get away from Sherlock?” Molly suggested. It was one they both knew, and not the one frequented by most of the Yard.

John agreed. “I’ll text you. In the meantime, let me know the minute Aurors show up. Before they get to Lestrade, if you can. I don’t want them Obliviating him if it’s not necessary.” The tone of his voice had gone softly commanding. Molly was amused. She supposed that it was the army captain coming through, or from the time before his time in the army.

Molly nodded, brushing aside John’s tone. “He’s had more than a few already, and most Aurors know that’s not good for anyone – Wizard or Muggle.” How she _wished_ she could team up with a psychologist to do a study on Obliviation and the staff of New Scotland Yard, both on their behavior and the effects of the Obliviation on police work. She could submit the paper as a co-investigator to the medical, psychological and scientific journal that was just for Squibs. It would be brilliant, but she had almost no chance of getting consenting patients.

John’s phone buzzed once, and then four more times in rapid succession. John sighed, his face completely losing its blankness, and gaining an amused look. “I think” he said, drawing out the last syllable. “That Sherlock wants me upstairs.”

“Probably.” Molly agreed with a small smile. “I’d better put him away.” She nodded her head towards the corpse.  “I’ll see you later.”

“Later.” John nodded, already replying to Sherlock’s rapid texts.

* * *

When John finally texted Molly, it was near two-thirty in the afternoon, and three by the time they met at the Starbucks they’d decided on. They’d established long ago that it wasn’t safe to talk at the Yard – policemen were masters at eavesdropping, especially when it was a conversation they weren’t supposed to overhear. This particular Starbucks was a franchise owned by a Muggleborn wizard who had left the Wizarding World, realizing that the Muggle world was much more profitable. It was a good place for anyone who knew about the Wizarding World to meet as well, as opposed to the Leaky Cauldron, where the Ministry had minders.

Molly had arrived first, buying both her own mocha (with extra chocolate syrup), and John’s Earl Grey (as milky as possible). She’d expected to wait a bit, once John had left the morgue. She’d been stuck putting the body away, and then transcribing the autopsy. She’d had to mock up two versions, one for the Muggle investigators while they were on the case, and another for the Aurors, who wouldn’t probably know anything about medicine, but quite a bit about curse wounds – which, admittedly, she knew little about, but had gotten very good at describing. On the bottom of the Wizarding transcription, she wrote that she would be getting a more official assessment of the wounds and their likely cause from one John Watson. Any Auror who read that statement would probably immediately go straight to John, or would direct the whole thing to higher ups, simply due to the fact that John’s name was on the bottom of the page and he was a known quantity.  Hopefully John’s name would mean that they’d bypass her entirely, unless they had further questions about her transcript. Molly merely hoped that they wouldn’t tell John that his name was at the bottom of her autopsy transcripts – she hadn’t told him about that, exactly.

When John did walk into the coffee shop, he looked a bit frazzled, and extremely grateful for the tea she handed him. They unfortunately had to wait for a few moments before speaking to one another, as a few other patrons who knew about the Wizarding World came over to greet either John, or the both of them. As they did so, out of the corner of her eye Molly spotted two figures with yellow scarves ensconcing themselves in the doorway across the street from the Starbucks, so that they had a clear line of sight on John and all the coffee shop’s points of entry. Molly bit her lip to keep from telling John. While the John she was used to had a military man’s paranoia, which for some reason wasn’t present around Sherlock,  it also seemed not to extend to the Warriors who had been following him around for his protection since they’d gotten wind that he’d moved in with a high-functioning sociopath and was getting into ridiculous amounts of trouble. The swelling of the Warrior’s membership had only come after Sherlock’s jump from the roof of St. Bart’s. 

Once the others moved away, John sat back in his chair with a sigh and sipped his tea. “Sherlock is ecstatic with the new case.” He reported between long drafts.

Molly giggled quietly. “Greg texted me. He said something akin to that Sherlock was practically hopping about the crime scene in glee. He did get the photos I sent then?”

John snorted. “I genuinely think we ran the length and breathe of the wharf.” He sighed and stared at the liquid in his cup. “I think it’s great that we’re back on cases, but I’m not happy about the renewed lack of rest. I knew it wouldn’t last long, but I had hoped. He did get the glossy photos, and while he might not thank you directly, I will. He was quiet for about twenty minutes, just staring at them.”

“You’re very welcome. I know the doctor in you disapproves the lack of rest, among other things.” Molly said knowingly. She was the same way. She’d become a vegetarian after her first autopsy. Then she had started to use nothing that contained too many chemicals, and got eight hours of sleep a night. Lifestyle changes came quicker, when you saw what could happen to one’s insides if the body wasn’t treated well.

John smiled, the near permanent bags under his eyes disappearing for a moment. “It does.”

Molly sipped her mocha before replying. She had two subjects to broach with John, and both would be hard to deal with, for both of them. She decided to go for the one that would be more personal to her. “John” she started tentatively. “Those wounds…”

“Caused by two different spells, I think.” John said quickly. “One is supposed to be more deadly than the other, usually was, actually. The other was a more common spell used on everything from people to paper.”

Molly blinked for a moment at the rapid delivery, and then realized that John Watson was being a complete and utter prat. He was refusing to name the spells that had caused the dead man’s injuries. She felt mild irritation rise in her. He was shielding her from the spells – the names of them, at any rate – because he either thought she didn’t know, or didn’t want her to know.

For goodness sake, she hadn’t survived a war to have to cater to this nonsense, and not from John of all people.

“You mean Sectumsempra?” Molly said pointedly. 

John stared at her for a long moment. Not in horror, but something akin to it, with a bit of denial mixed in. He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he looked guilty.

“I had really, probably irrationally, hoped you hadn’t known what that was.” John said gently, and there was guilt in his voice now.

“John.” Molly shook her head, her tone terse. “By the end of the war, most people had either heard of the spell or had seen the effects of it firsthand.” She softened her tone a little bit. “And my aunt made sure I knew what it was.”

John’s face practically slammed into inscrutability. If it wasn’t for the fact that his grip on his Starbucks mug had tightened painfully, Molly would have never known what was going on in his mind. Evangeline Reece had been a very down to earth woman, who had never shied away from the realities of the war that both wizards and non-wizards had been thrust into, but had also insisted that her family understand them as well. Up until she’d died, at the very least. Molly put one of her own hands gently on the hand that John wasn’t trying to break his mug with. “She knew the risks, what was asked of her, John. She wouldn’t want you to feel guilty. It wasn’t your fault, and you know that there wasn’t anything you could have done to prevent it.”

John eventually nodded once, the whiteness in his face slowly bleeding away as his grip on his mug relaxed as well. He took a shallow breath. “The first spell – Sectumsempra – was probably used to stop our dockworker in his tracks.  Then a stasis-like spell was probably used to keep him from bleeding out. The cutting curse was intended to inflict as much pain as possible.” John shuddered slightly. “Any Auror who investigates this should probably look for spells which would have drawn attention away from the torture. He did this out in the open, completely unconcerned that someone would catch him at it.”

Molly made a note of what John said in the notebook she’d brought for just that reason. She would hand the notebook off to the Aurors who came to take over the case, if they came. “Do you think the killer is a Death Eater?” She asked. John would know better than she would.

John bit his lip. “I don’t know.” He replied. “It’s too early to tell. Sectumsempra isn’t an Unforgivable, anyone can use it.”

That was a mildly frightening, but rational hypothesis, Molly thought. “We might only find out if there are more murders.” She said instead.

John’s gaze hardened. “God, I hope not.”

Another question rose to the forefront of Molly’s mind and broke the mildly awkward quiet that had come with John’s statement. “Do you think that Sherlock will find out, you know, about magic? It’s his first case to bring him this close to the Statute of Secrecy that we know of.” The ‘or that we’ve been hiding magic from him, and the fact that we’ve known about it most of our lives’ went unsaid.

John huffed. “I don’t know, and I’m not sure if I want Sherlock to know about magic or not. He’d be fascinated, but even a lot of simple magic can dangerous for wizards, let alone genius level Muggles.” He chewed his lip. “Additionally, if Sherlock knows about it, his first place to start gathering data about the Wizarding world would be public records. He might start digging about and he’ll find out about-” John paused, “and then there’s Mycroft.” He changed the subject before Molly could press him on it further. “What do you want to do, if the Aurors show up?”

“I’ll text you immediately.” Molly promised. “Like the last times they’ve come on cases when Greg was involved. And I think I’ll tell Frank, this time. That way he’ll know something is going on, and he can keep a look out. It’s only fair to let him know that there’s a magical killer about.”

John’s eyes practically lit up. “Brilliant, Molly! I should have thought of that. He can tell the patrols, so that they can look around, but also keep safe! I should have thought of that.”

Molly blushed, a little flustered. She rarely ever got praise. “Thanks John.”

“I mean it.” John said earnestly, and then his cell phone pinged indicating that he had a new text. He sighed, not even pulling out his phone. “I’ll bet you fifty pence that it’s Sherlock and means that we’ll be doing more running.”

Molly giggled. “I’m not going to take you up on that John, it’s bound to be Sherlock.” She paused. “Oh! I almost forgot. Can you meet me on Wednesday? I have some updates for you, Wizarding Word-wise.”

“Sure.” John said, draining his mug, standing, and taking out his phone. “It’s clinic day on Wednesday, I have my lunch break all to myself.”

“You are buying the drinks next time.” Molly forewarned him. She stayed sitting, she hadn’t drunk most of her mocha, so she thought she’d stay at the shop for a bit. And she had another meeting scheduled.

“Deal.” John said, and went to answer his flat mate’s summons. 

* * *

Bill Apparated home, relaxing from the moment that his feet hit the sandy beach around Shell Cottage and the sound of the waves lapping against the shoreline reached his ears. It meant that all was well, and that he was finally home after a long day. He only really had a few seconds to appreciate his surroundings though. When the sound of his Apparation reached the cottage, a smaller form came barreling out of the house, leaving the front door to slam against the outer wall and yelling “Papa! Papa!”

Making sure the goblin’s book was tucked safely in his satchel, Bill knelt and swept his one of his little girls into his arms.  Fleur, as beautiful as ever, had followed his younger daughter to see what the commotion was, but instead stood at the doorway to the cottage, a smile on her face, one hand placed over her stomach, the new baby bump just beginning to show. The love of his life hadn’t changed in his eyes, in the fifteen years plus that he’d been married to her. For all that she had to put up with, between his near lycanthropy to his various jobs, not counting his Gringotts one.

He listened to Dominique chatter, and kissed her cheek before kissing Fleur at the door. “Hello love.”

Fleur beamed back up at him. “Come inside William. Your daughter wishes to tell you of her day, I would like my feet rubbed, and your dinner is getting cold.”

Bill chuckled. “Anything for you.” He kissed Fleur’s nose, and followed her inside.

It was only after dinner, during which Dominique whined about how she wanted to go back to Hogwarts with her sister Victoire, who was at Hogwarts now and would be due home soon for the Christmas hols, that Bill was able to take out the book that Supervisor Moragh had given him. His daughter was tucked into bed, Fleur was curled up next to him in their own, and she watched him drowsily. She hadn’t wrapped her arms around him, knowing that if he found whatever he’d brought home from work interesting enough, he probably would get up again. He’d startled her before, doing just that. It was a trait he’d inherited from his father, Weasley men were always tinkering with something. 

He held the small book in his hands, feeling the weight of it settling into his bones. It was a well-cared for little book. That either meant that the book had always been under close watch, or that its worth was not known for some time, which meant that it had been ignored. The former was more likely. Goblins always knew worth, and enjoyed keeping it safe, be it in the form of gems or words. The libraries in Goblin cities were vast, containing materials about crafts, history and innumerable other subjects – some so old they reportedly predated the births of the Founders.

He opened the cover and went to read the title page. He stopped, closed the book, and then opened it once more to read the title page again.

“Journal one of research and experimental records. Helga Hufflepuff, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. 998A.D – 912A.D.”

It was written in a florid hand, scratchy and fading, but absolutely a woman’s hand. He breathed gently, now very careful not to breathe on the page itself. It could be a copy of a copy, but he was most certainly, at least he thought, reading an actual log of experiments performed by Helga Hufflepuff. The possibilities surged through Bill’s brain. 

Most of the Wizarding World, despite all evidence that they were just as cunning and intelligent as the rest of the Houses, thought little of Hufflepuffs. Bill knew better, and not only because he’d met some very scary Hufflepuffs. The House’s reputation had also suffered because while Slytherin had become famous for going against the other Founders, Rowena had championed ambition and learning, and Godric Gryffindor had been a brave defender to the last, Helga Hufflepuff had welcomed all students to her arms, regardless of background or skill. A diplomat at heart, Helga Hufflepuff had never been considered great, because she had not, to anyone’s knowledge, contributed a great deal to the Wizarding world, other than her food related Charms work. The Goblins had always held her in high esteem, but none of the Gringotts curse breakers had ever successfully figured out why.

A journal detailing unknown experiments, ones that Helga had actually done herself… Perhaps she had contributed more to the Wizarding world than anyone had thought? Bill shook his head. He’d learned to be skeptical in his relatively old age. He turned the page.

He did slip out of bed after about half an hour of intense reading. Fleur had fallen asleep at some point, and Bill hadn’t noticed. The journal was exactly what it had proclaimed itself to be. A running log of ideas and experiments by the one and only Helga Hufflepuff. It had been written sometime soon after Hogwarts had been founded and had been in service as a school for a few years. More importantly, it was written when the Founders had been undergoing the process of putting stronger wards on their newly built castle, as the original wards only kept Muggles away and would not withstand a heavy assault. 

“The wards are of a complicated nature. Rowena believes that the wards may  benefit both from drawing the magic that is cast within the school itself, as well as from anchoring to either a ritual or a portion of the castle itself. Though the idea is sound, we have no basis of knowledge for strengthening the wards thusly. As far as she knows, something like this has never been attempted. I am more familiar with wards, as my father, may he rest in peace, studied them, and while Rowena would like to lead this project, it has fallen to me. Though I have neither Rowena’s brilliance, nor Godric’s strength, nor Salazar’s dark cleverness, I suspect have some knowledge that can be beneficial to the school, more than Salazar would freely admit. I have a strong mind, but moreover an eagerness to persevere some would call stubborness. That in itself can be a strength, and a brilliance. I hope to work, with these many months, to forward a plan that can make our school safe for many years to come.”

Bill had had to bite his lip at that, memories of the Final Battle and the castle crumbling about them drifting to the forefront of his mind. Hogwarts had been safe for a very, very long time. If Helga was the one who had succeeded in creating the Hogwarts wards, she’d done very well. 

The log began with Helga’s research. She had made notes about anchor stones (most were old, old magic, and Bill counted himself lucky to have encountered two of them, and never had cause to attempt breaking them), and detailed the original plans for warding the castle – before they had come up with stronger ones, more solid ones that would not need to be renewed as often. Helga had begun experimenting with tiny anchor stones, hunks of rock made of the same stone that much of the castle was built on. It was hard going, apparently, and in the time that Helga had started, she had blown up two hunks of quarry rock, faced backlashes from magical effort, and setbacks while she did more research. It was near two in the morning that Bill both realized the time, and came to something intriguing.

“While the school has been in operation for a few years, the amount of magic that goes on within our halls is likely to rival the amount in any other stronghold in the Isles. More, likely, as the incidence of accidental magic is high among our students, a large portion of which have come to us with no knowledge of how to control their gifts. While I have had relative success in beginning the creation of what we hope are anchor stones for the more intricate wards, my work is not yet complete. I have been able to cast small wards around small stones, but they are bypassed with some force. If merely these were implemented, Hogwarts would fall within a matter of hours. I must learn a way around this.”

Better yet, was a later entry.

“I was walking with Salazar in one of the herbology gardens this morning, and was passing with him past an entrance to the castle and saw what appeared to be a haze, it enveloped the length and breadth of the wall, if not physically. It was as if there was a presence there. While I have worked with the small anchor stones, I have felt nothing such as this. Later, I went back without Salazar, and felt the same, not merely in the garden, but all over the castle. It was so natural to me, that I may not have noticed it but for the off chance. Upon examination, I have begun to realize that the large amount of magic within Hogwarts has altered the castle itself. Oddly, the stones of Hogwarts seem to be collecting and absorbing some of the power inherent with large concentrations of wizards during all four seasons. It is, and while I write this here, I shall never tell Rowena, as though the stones are somehow reacting to us. One of Rowena’s lot insists that one of the staircases in the hall lurched one afternoon, all on its own, and then was still again. It appeared well when we checked. Though my fellows are seemingly unable to tell, now that I have realized it may be there there is a faint feeling in my head whenever I touch the walls of the castle, a faint buzzing, and occasionally an unusual warmth beneath my fingers– I am not sure what else to call it. For all I know, we have created living stone.”

Bill sat back in his chair with a thump against the backboard, looking down at the book that had been lying on his desk, dumbstruck. Living stone. He’d heard of something like that before. Not necessarily in those words, but he had. Bill yawned, and went to bed, the idea rattling through his mind in the few short hours he had before he had to get up again to go to work.

He’d have plenty of questions for Supervisor Moragh in the morning.


	8. Two weeks before the flight of Gurzak the Goblin banker.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two weeks before the flight of Gurzak the Goblin banker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good – whatever part of the day, or night, or part of your existential journey though the infinite space-time of fan fiction you currently happen to be experiencing! Thank you for reading thus far and putting up with the “less frequent than I expected” updates. (Still not dead!)
> 
> It’s a short chapter, I know, but it sets up a lot of the story going forward. (Make special note of the approximate “date” that the main event in this chapter happened – erm, spoiler alert?)
> 
> Also, I’d like to thank FuzzyClay for the wonderful encouragement she left in my comments.
> 
> I would also like to extend a special thank you to Gothams_Only_Wolf, Lesa, tavern tales, and Dragon Dread for agreeing to be part of our own little “Warrior” group and helping us (Laughing_Phoenix and I) to set up the additional portion of Master of London. It is part of the Master of London verse – and it has a great deal to do with what will happen later in the Master of London. 
> 
> We are still looking for volunteers, so if you’re interested, please let Laughing_Phoenix and myself know, through the comments down under the chapter. We can also be found on FF.net, though as of the moment I am writing this, MoL is not yet up on FF.net. The not so vague details about the project are just below this sentence. 
> 
> "MoL (Master of London) has spawned a bit of a side project in collaboration with my beta Laughing_Phoenix, which will actually be a HUGE part of this fic later.
> 
> As such, I am putting out a call for talented artists and writers (basically all of you, you wonderful, brilliant lot!) who like this story, have a desire for SPOILERS, and want to be a wonderful person. Like Watson's Warriors, only in fandom.  
> The pieces that you've kindly, wonderfully, contributed will be posted as part of "Part II" of Master of London - which is being called "Life of War". Each chapter of LoW will then appear as a separate story in the LoW "series". You will be listed as co-author for your "story" in the series.
> 
> If you choose to participate, as a thank you, your penname or other alias of choice will be used as the codename of a Watson's Warriors in Master of London. Those contributing four or more pieces will receive a drabble set in either the Master of London universe, Harry Potter, or Sherlock, written by myself or my beta, Laughing_Phoenix."
> 
> Cheers! – teacup_of_doom

* * *

_Two weeks before the flight of Gurzak the Goblin banker._   


It was nearly one in the morning when Sovann Hershel closed his shop on Diagon Alley, and headed towards the Apparation Point, which would take him to his nice, cozy home, and bed. His quarterly inventory had taken much longer than expected, but he now had a list of supplies to replenish, potions to brew, and prices to elevate. He hummed as he walked, the sound of his steps echoing around the eerily empty street. No business was done in the alley at night, except for the nearly always open doors of the Leaky Cauldron, though decent wizards would never be caught there at this hour.

He was alone, at least, he had been sure of being alone, until the sound of quiet footsteps behind him pierced through the humming. He stopped for a moment, thinking that whomever was behind him would walk forward and pass him, but the quiet footsteps stopped when he did.

A chill went down his spine, and he tried to keep himself calm. It could be nothing, a fellow late night merchant going home as well, and wondering why he himself had stopped. Or, admittedly, it could be a mugger. There were coins at his belt, certainly, that would be desirable. He could just give them up, and hopefully be on his way. Sovann did not turn around. He resumed his humming, as if nothing was wrong, but reached for the wand that hung in a sling by his belt - the wrong place for it, he was suddenly realizing. He continued to walk at his normal pace, as if he’d dismissed the footsteps as nothing but a phantom noise. He could catch out the man tailing him, and then all he did after would be in the name of self defense.

He’d never been good at defensive magic at Hogwarts, to his detriment. It would have come in useful, over the last twenty years, through the war and the turmoil afterwards. But he had had no plans but to take over his father’s shop when he died. And he’d done so - his life had been spent as a paper and goods pusher. He tried not to think of how sweaty his palm was, his fingers clenched, white-knuckled, over the pale, polished wood.

And then, suddenly, the sound of the extra footsteps was gone. Sovann turned around quickly, hoping to catch a glimpse of his follower - but there was nothing behind him but the empty, moonlit cobbles of Diagon Alley. Sovann almost laughed in relief, straightened up with a smile, preparing to stick his wand back into its sling. And then something - not four feet from where he was standing - caught his eye.

It was a child’s doll. A very beloved doll, from the state of it. It was a grubby thing, made of fabric and stuffing. One of the eyes was missing, and one of it’s hands had been ripped open - the stuffing peeking out. The thing had hair made of red yarn, whichwas what had drawn his eye.  Sovann stopped and stared at it. What on earth had been the purpose of putting the doll behind him? It couldn’t possibly be a gift. He didn’t have children, and as badly used as that doll was, he wouldn’t have given it to them if he had. Sovann reached for the doll before he could help himself, curiosity overriding the warnings in his mind to stay away from it.

The moment that his fingers were almost a brush away from the doll, a rapid movement on the right, out of the corner of Sovann’s eye, made him move faster than he’d ever thought he’d be able to, bringing his wand to bear. An expelliarmussnatchedthe wand from his grip in the same moment. His would-be assailant closed on him before the shopkeeper could realize it, the punch to his face sending him to the ground, face up, the doll close to the side of his cheek.

He looked up through the pain and the terror to see his assailant. His eyes grew wide. “You!” He choked out. “But you’re-” The next blow wasa savage kick to his ribcage, and he groaned in pain, feeling something snap. The petrificus totalusthat came after lefthim staringuselessly at the starry night sky. He felt, rather than saw, his assailant kneel down next to him, and speak in his ear.

“Yes.” The voice snarled. “Me. Did you really think you’d be safe from me forever?” The attacker paused, then crooned.“Of course you did.” The figure straightened, and patted the helpless shopkeeper on the cheek, with a smile too friendly to be reassuring. The shopkeeper whimpered, would have begged for his life if he could have. “Come now, Sovann, don’t be sad. You’re going to pay for what you did by helping me to make a point.” The figure stood, picked up the doll, and slipped it almost reverently back into the depths of his cloak.

He levitated the paralyzed body into the air. “Isn’t that worth dying for?” He asked sardonically, and laughed.

The shopkeeper moaned in terror as he floated from the moonlit alley into darkness.

* * *

The sound of metal hitting cobblestones was usually the only warning people got before they realized that someone was walking behind them, before hearing “shove over, Auror coming through” startled them enough to move and give her a good look, before realizing who she was and scooting back farther. It was better than those who realized who she was and collapsedinto some sort of hero worship - which Nymphadora Lupin had absolutely no interest in indulging.

Diagon Alley was a mess. At eight in the morning, the shops should have been doing decent business, and the alley itself bustling. This morning, while the shops were still doing business, the Auror division wasextremely busy. When Nymphadora managed to push herself to the front of the crowd that had begun forming at one end of the Alley - and was getting larger by the moment - she had to admire in satisfaction the cordon that her trainees had managed to erect to keep nosy wizards and witches at bay. She was let through the cordon immediately, by both the magic that kept bystanders away, and by one of her red-robed trainees, bothcompletely ignoring the flashes from the Daily Prophet’s snap-happy photographer’s camera. She was used to them these days. Between the fact that she was now famous, and the high profile nature of an alleged murder in Diagon Alley, there was no doubt that there would be more photographers following the case.

They were fortunate in that there was only one photographer present (the Aurors would be confiscating the film - not that the man knew it yet), usually when there was a whiff of Potter being on the case, the photographers showed up en masse.

Tonks reached the solid black cloth barrier that her trainees had erected around the body of the deceased lay - she notedthat two of her trainees were off to the left of it, looking remarkably green - and leant heavily on her cane, waiting for the trainee in charge of thescene to materialize and give their report.

The cane looked as flimsy as a matchstick, and more than one person had, in the past, winced as she leant on it. The head of the cane was an elongated, heavily detailed, gold badger’s head. The tip, where the cane struck the ground, was of the same metal. The shaft of the cane itself, was plain, seemingly unvarnished wood. It was made of the remains of Mad Eye Moody’s walking stick. Nymphadora had taken it, when she came out of St. Mungo’s, at the end of the war, and fashioned it into this. It was a nod to her former mentor, and was meant to show that, like Mad Eye, she would not be cowed by her injuries. Never by the ones given to her by Bellatrix Lestrange.

One of the trainees lurking by the cloth barrier who was not nursing her stomach peeled away from it, approached Nymphadora and saluted. “Senior Auror, marm.”

“Wotcher Wolforst,” Nymphadora nodded in acknowledgment. “What’s going on this bright and early?”

“Man, in his late forties, was found dead this morning by a shopkeeper coming to work, from the Apparation Point.” Wolforst reported, less stiffly than she had at the beginning of her training, Nymphadora was pleased to note. “Aurors were immediately notified, but multiple commuters and early shoppers had already seen the body. The dead man has been tentatively identified as Sovann Hershel, shopkeeper and owner of Hershel Potions Supplies.”

“A mugging?” Nymphadora suggested.

Wolforst shook her head. “I don’t think so marm. Not...not in the condition that the body was found.”

Nymphadora looked over her trainee carefully. While she wasn’t by the partition looking sick, she was absolutely shaken. Nymphadora bit her lip, weighing her options, then took her weight off the cane. “Show me the body.” She ordered. The trainees would need to learn to bear the sight of terrible things sooner rather than later.

Upon coming around the partition, Nymphadora found that she had to revise her mental statement. The sight was actually quite terrible. The former shopkeeper was naked, his sightless eyes open wide, the blue sky reflected in them. The body was laying half on its side, one arm stretched out above the head, all but the index finger curled. The index finger was pointed at nothing. The same had been done to the arm that lay beneath, pointing straight ahead. The feet had been set on top of one another, pointed away from the head. The man’s chest looked like mincemeat.

Nymphadora took one, gentle breath, making sure not to appear shaken, and asked “time of death?”

“After about three in the morning, but we can’t be absolutely sure.” Wolforst was staring at the black cloth, determinedly not looking down at the body. “The healer we got from Saint Mungo’s to examine him was fairly certain that Mr. Hershel was alive when this was done to him.”

Nymphadora managed to swallow the disgust and feeling of sick that slowly rose from her stomach. It was almost like looking at the work of a Death Eater all over again, because they had been the type todo something this. “Any sign of his clothing?”

“No.” Wolforst said. “His killer must have taken them with him.”

“Has anyone gone to his shop yet?” Nymphadora asked.

“Yes, Williamson is talking to his assistant shopkeeper now. He’s understandablyin shock. According to him, Mr. Hershel was all alone in the shop last night, doing inventory by himself. He apparently always did it by himself, and let the staff go home early.”

“So he could have been meeting someone, and the staff wouldn’t have known.” Nymphadora hummed to herself absently. “When Williamson is done, I want him to give me a report on what the shop assistant thought of Mr. Hershel’s actions in the last few days. His moods, any indication that he knew what was going to happen to him.”

“Yes marm.”

Nymphadora cocked her head to the side, scanning the body for a few minutes, and then the surrounding area as well. “What do you think of this Wolforst?” She asked abruptly.

“Of the murder?”

“Yes. I want your honest, full impressions, please.”

Wolforst thought for a moment. Nymphadora had tried to instill in her trainees the maxim that an educated guess was better than approaching a problem like a seeker with a blindfold on.

“I think.” Wolford said hesitantly, glancing down once at the body. “That whoever did this, hated him. And wanted to humiliate him, in addition to scaring him.”

“Good. Why?”

Emboldened, Wolforst responded. “Well, he’s naked. If it was a simple murder, the perpetrator would have just stabbed him and run off. But they didn’t, they stripped him, and then tortured him. The torture, this doesn’t seem like it’s random. He wanted to inflict the maximum amount of pain.”

“Even better.” Nymphadora responded approvingly. “Now. What do you make of the body’s positioning?” She bit her lip. Something was stirring in her mind. Something wasn’t quite right, and she was missing it.

“Some of the others, well, some of us think that he’s laid out like the hands of a clock. Three hands, hours, minutes and seconds.” Wolforst continued, trying to explain what she meant. “His right arm is pointing towards twelve, his left towards three, and his toes to the thirty second mark.”

Nymphadora bit her lip, thinking. Something was coalescing in the recesses of her brain. Something to do with the positioning, yes, but not about time.

“It would match the approximate time of death.” Wolforst was still speaking.

“No.” Nymphadora interrupted. “No, there’s something else.” It was on the edge of her mind now - the trainees, the ones who were in earshot, were all staring at her, trying to listen and learn at the same time as they were directing traffic. “It’s not time. That would be a criminal being helpful, and the day that happens, my mother will dye her hair purple.” One of the trainees repressed a snort of laughter, barely. Nymphadora was looking towards Diagon Alley when it hit her. “It’s the streets!”

Wolforst’s forehead furrowed. “Sorry marm, I’m not quite following you.”

“We’re in an intersection, right?” Nymphadora said. “Look where our victim is pointing. He’s directly in the middle of an intersection. His whole body is positioned, contorted to simulate arrows, pointing to wherever our killer wants us to look. So look!”

Wolford did, looking around. “His feet, they’re pointing down Gringotts Street.”

“Yes!” Nymphadora said, and she couldn’t help the small thrill of excitement that ran down her back. “And his left arm?”

“Diagon Alley.” Wolforst breathed. “And his right arm-”

“Up Wizengamot Way, towards the Ministry of Magic.” Nymphadora intoned. “He’s sending us a message, our killer.”

“What’s the message?” Wolforst asked, and she sounded as Nymphadora thought she had probably sounded once, on cases.

“I have no idea.” Nymphadora said. “But my guess? Those three institutions are connected. We just don’t know how yet.”

“Does that mean there will be more bodies?” Wolforst asked. “If you’re right and the message isn’t complete?”

“Probably.” Nymphadora said darkly. She tapped her cane on the ground absently. “Wolforst, I want any files that the Auror office can dredgeup about our victim. Anything at all could be meaningful.”

“Yes marm.” Wolford replied instantly. “What do we do now?”

“Now? You and your fellows get to arrange for photos and get the body to the mortuary at Saint Mungo’s. I have to have a meeting with our Chief Auror, and probably the Minister. We probably have a serial killer on our hands, though only time will tell.”

Wolford saluted and started to pass on orders tothe other trainees. Nymphadora stood there for a momentlonger, looking down at the dead man. Whatever was coming would set the Wizarding World into a panic again, and she was at the forefront.

Good thing she had plenty of practice.

* * *

Later that evening, a young wizard shakily walked into a small, out of the way pub called the Badger’s Sett to attend a general meeting of the Watson’s Warriors.

The Sett was loud, and the meeting itself was boisterous all on its own, so the young wizard’s silence wasn’t noticed by all at first.

Someone, probably illegally on a broomstick, and drawn a "We are Watson's Warriors" sign on the hour hand of Big Ben.  The Warrior hadn't come forward yet - and probably wouldn't - but apparently people from the Ministry Department of Muggle relations were having kittens over it and had actually come to the Sett earlier to speak to Frank Keane.

Frank was in tears of laughter, trying to describe the overly panicked Ministry minions as they had glanced about the Sett’s denizens while listening to Frank deny all knowledge of the prank. The majority of the Warrior's current command staff was present, preferring to be on hand in case there were questions for them or just taking the opportunity to catch up with other Warriors they might not otherwise see.

Blame, or rather dubious credit, was being shunted toward the former (supposedly retired) head of the Warriors' aerial division, Oliver Wood. The Gryffindor was refusing staunchly to comment, but there was a definite smile on his lips, and he wasn’t turning away the drinks people were buying him, so there was a decent enough chance that he, or one of his former fliers, had done the deed.

“And then,” Frank cackled. “The first bloke told me, as prim as could be, that the Ministry does not approve the activities of a civilian military group masquerading as an aid organization-” There were roars of laugher and outrage at this. “Before the other bloke silenced him with a spell, and took him away gently, explaining that, actually, we were an aid organization, and most of us had received Orders of Merlin after the second war! The look on the first bloke’s face!” Frank let the laughter die down a bit as he sobered up.

“While this is funny, lads and ladies.” Frank said more seriously. “Please don’t risk life and limb doing something that outrageous again – yes, I do mean you Oliver.” He had to wait for the laughter to die down again. “I don’t want to have to explain to your families that you ended up in prison, or a splat on the pavement because you were doing graffiti in ridiculous places. With that cleared up, we’ve got one more item of administrative nonsense before we go around to see if anyone else has got something to report. John-watching duty. We’ve got a good roster going, but we do need some more volunteers, and we need them sharpish. I need five more people who won’t mind the cold, but do like his landlady’s hot chocolate to come see Leticia after the meeting. Any volunteers right off the bat?”

Three people’s hands went up. Frank beamed. “Excellent. See Leticia after, please.”

Frank leaned forward on his bit of the overcrowded table. “Now, who’s got something interesting for us?”

Several people raised their hands, giving their reports first.  Some were amusing, some had to do with near run-ins with New Scotland Yard and other news.  Through all this, the young wizard took carefully measured sips of his Firewhiskey, ignoring the fact that he was drinking much more than he should.  Eventually the verbal reports began to come around the circle, and sooner than he knew he was the center of attention.

“Marcus!” Frank beamed. “You’ve been quiet tonight. Anything the matter?”

Marcus, Auror-in-training, took one more sip from his glass and said. “I probably shouldn’t say anything about this. It’s an open investigation but-“ His Bradfordian accent had gotten thick since he’d started drinking. “I think you should know. There was a body found in Diagon Alley this morning.” Several people, in shock, tried to speak over one another to inquire what had happened.

Frank’s face went tight. “Tell us as much as you can Marcus. If you’re bringing it up, I’m guessing it wasn’t a simple mugging.”

Marcus shook his head. “No sir.” He breathed in sharply, and all the Warriors around the table saw the hand that was holding his drink shake. “Murder.”

Gasps were heard around the room.

“In the Alley?” Someone called out in disbelief.

“Aye.” Marcus said, “I’ve never seen anything like it, the body.” He shook his head. “It was like something out of the war. The victim’s chest, it was like someone had ground it to bits – and I heard the Auror in charge say that he’d been alive when it’d been done.” The room was dead silent now. “The body, it’d been positioned too, pointing down some of the alleys.”

Frank cut him off before he could say anything else, more would probably get the boy kicked out of his post. “Ok Marcus, that’s fine. We don’t need anymore. Thank you for telling us. Keep us posted.”

Marcus merely nodded and took another sip of his drink.

The meeting broke up soon after. No one felt much like talking after that pronouncement. Frank, Leticia, and the rest of the command staff stayed behind.

“Could it be Death Eaters?” Adam Brayden asked. “I haven’t heard anything through any of my networks about a Death Eater running loose. Though honestly, most Slytherins won’t have a thing to do with me now.” The Slytherin pureblood smiled wanly.

Frank bit his lip. “It could be anyone. Death Eaters are the most likely, but, it’s been more than fifteen years. That’s a long waiting game to be playing to suddenly start killing again.”

There was a moment while everyone pondered this.

“Well, what do we do about it?” Asked.

Leticia looked at Frank, and then shrugged. “Nothing, for the moment.” She hesitated. "Or, if we're all agreeable, no one goes out without a wand and a couple of offensive potions to hand."

Instead of a general outcry, or even protest from Frank, there was an air of surprise at Leticia’s statement.

“You mean like we did during the war?” Someone asked. “Reinstating battle readiness. Buddy system, offensive potions, warning whistles? The lot?”

Frank spoke. “It may not be a bad idea. For all we know, this murderer has done their only deed and they won't be looking for fresh victims. But I’m not willing to take that chance, not with the lives of any Warrior.”

There was general, but reluctant agreement with this.

"Do we tell John that we're reinstating battle-readiness?” Mila Hooper asked. John, as their leader in self-exile, would still want to know.

Frank however, shook his head. “Not unless something happens. Or, unless London tells him.” He could tell that no one was happy with this. “The less on John’s mind the better.”

“It might convince him to come back.” Madeline Harwood spoke out, ever the logistician.

"Just us going battle-ready isn't going to do that." Leticia responded. “For now, I agree with Frank. We wait.”

They put it to a vote in the end.

They would wait.

 


	9. Many Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are moving along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all. So, I’m going to apologize for the lateness of the chapter, but… not really. I’m not dead (Hi boxesofboxes – see? Not dead! Sorry, I had to do it.) but uh, I did get clobbered on the head. REALLY BADLY. So badly that I got a concussion, and I’m not 100% yet. (None of my characters are EVER getting head injuries. EVER. Not now I know what it’s like.)
> 
> Let me put it this way, I spent weeks lying in bed under strict orders to do nothing. Not even read. So I tried to spend the time counting the ceiling tiles of my bedroom – and folks, we don’t have ceiling tiles in our house.
> 
> But. I did have time to brainstorm this. So! Enjoy the cliffy. Mwahaha. Kindly put your reactions in the comments – I want to see them.
> 
> A very happy Halloween to you all! I’m celebrating with honest-to-goodness butterbeer and cauldron cakes. 
> 
> With love,  
> Teacup.

* * *

 

Making his way through the busy hallways of St. Bart’s Hospital, Frank felt almost too conspicuous. He was tall, but in his yellow and black striped scarf and, long trenchcoat, his grey fedora clutched in his right hand, he felt as if he towered over everyone. The medical staff that he passed either ignored him, or gave him questioning glances, but did not actually stop him, for which Frank was grateful. Then again, he hadn’t yet tried to traipse through any areas that were purely for medical personnel only, which might have accounted for his continued ability to wander about freely thus far.

Part of Frank recognized that sneaking into a Muggle hospital shouldn’t have felt as exciting as it did, but the other parts of him were refusing to acknowledge the childishness and let the pseudo- paranoia flow freely. Another part of him felt like James Bond.

Running through the mental map in his head, Frank eventually found the door he was looking for. Casting a look around to make sure nobody was paying attention to him, he slipped inside.  Down the nearest flight of stairs, and Frank felt as if he was in another world.

Compared to the noise level upstairs, the basement level was still, nearly silent. No medical personnel hurried about, no patients coughed on each other. The corridor was dark, and only once he took a few steps into the black did the movement sensing lights turn on.  The only thing breaking the silence was the sound of a radio a little ways off, playing a song by the Weird Sisters. Frank grinned at that - Molly was apparently unconcerned that a Muggle would wander in and ask what she was playing - and hummed along to the tune, following the sound, letting it guide him.

Molly’s desk sat away from the main area of the morgue, in a small alcove where she could do paperwork in peace. The mortician herself was in the process of cleaning her desk, humming along to the song like Frank was. “Molly!” Frank exclaimed loudly, cheerfully, when he was in close proximity, because she’d been so engrossed in cleaning that she hadn’t heard him come in.

Molly started, and then smiled widely at the sight of him. “Frank!” She quickly set down the papers she’d been sorting, coming around to the front of the desk. He was fond of Molly, in the way that an older brother would be of a younger sister, and it was very nice to see her.

“Bad time?” He asked, though he was fairly certain that it wasn’t.

“No!” Molly said loudly, and then repeated herself more quietly. “Not at all, just cleaning up a bit. It’s almost time to go home for the day. I don’t want to leave anything out that might be sensitive information. And I always like to come back to a tidy desk.” She must have realized that she was rambling, because her mouth snapped shut. Frank began to sympathize with Leticia’s complaints that he rambled constantly.

Frank nodded in understanding. “I got your text.” He said, patting the pocket where he kept his phone. It was on unless he was in a magically saturated area. Muggle technology, while far more convenient than most wizarding methods of messaging, did not work in magical areas. Not because magic truly interfered with the inner workings of technology, but because - for whatever reason - magic sucked the battery life out of any piece of technology in the area. If Frank had to take it into a wizarding area, he always took the battery out first. “What’s going on?”

Molly looked at the doorway nervously. “You’d better come sit down.” She told him, and then more sheepishly she added “would you, you know.” She waved her hand as if it was a wand. “Ward the area so that no one can hear what we’re really saying?”

Frank’s forehead crinkled at the request, but he did it without asking why. He didn’t have to ask; if Molly asked him for a ward, it meant that whatever she needed to speak about wasn’t simply Warriors related.

Molly didn’t start speaking until he nodded an affirmation that the ward was up. “John was here yesterday.” She began. “Not that that’s unusual, he comes to visit all the time.” She was wringing her hands with anxiety, Frank noticed, and fought the urge to immediately ask if John was alright. Molly would have sent out an immediate alert if something had happened to John, of course, but the response was instinctive. Then again, if it was bad enough, London would have let everyone know. “With Sherlock. John saw me afterwards, and we agreed that I should tell you about it.”

“About what?” Frank asked. While he’d known Molly since she was a child, he’d never learned to calm her anxiety, and often wished he had.

“Their new case.” Molly said. “It’s - well, there’s nothing else it could be.” She stopped for a moment, biting her lip. “It was a murder, obviously, they wouldn’t come to me for anything else. Detective Inspector Lestrade was the one who let them on the case. It was only because the wounds were so strange that he allowed Sherlock on it.” Molly was looking him in the eyes now. “But the wounds were only strange to Sherlock and Lestrade.” She said. “Because they’re Muggles.”

Instant comprehension slammed into Frank’s mind with the force of a sledgehammer. “Wounds created by a wand.” He stated. “Do you know what spell?” He cursed, the implications bubbling up to the surface of his still stunned mind. “Not that it matters. Bollocks. A wizard-on-muggle murder. Who was the victim?”

Molly shook her head. “The victim was a Muggle dock worker. As far as I know, and I’m not up to date on the investigation right now, he had no magical connections whatsoever. And the spell was Sectumsempra. It was…well the body was in a bad way. It looked like the spell had been used over and over again. While the dockworker was alive, to draw out the pain, and a stasis spell kept him alive through it.” She crossed back to her desk, picked up a thick manila folder and handed it to him. “That’s a copy of my report. The one I plan to give to the Aurors. I thought that they would have shown up by now, but they haven’t.” Molly shrugged. “I thought you could have a more edited report as well, because otherwise the Warriors would be in the dark.” The fact that she shouldn’t have been giving such information to him at all went understood but unmentioned. 

The folder felt heavy in Frank’s hands. Something pricked at the back of his mind, something about Molly’s description of the body, but the feeling of foreboding he suddenly felt whisked it away before he could properly examine it. “What was John’s reaction?”

“He was a bit stoic about it.” Molly said, and bit her lip.

The corner of Frank’s mouth twitched. They both had a long history of association with John, and knew that “a bit stoic” for John was a bit of an understatement. “That bad, eh?”

Molly smiled, nodding gently, but her gaze was on the floor. “I had to tell him to stop being a berk.”

Frank laughed. “Oh Merlin, better you than me.”

Molly’s eyebrows rose. “I know you’ve called him worse.” She said “I’ve seen you do it.”

Frank shrugged. “We butt heads occasionally. It’s only come to a brawl once.”

Molly shook her head, muttering what sounded like “men”. 

“John and Sherlock are definitely investigating this?” Frank asked in confirmation. “And the Aurors haven't even come yet?”

“No, though I suspect that when I give my report to my superiors, they will.” Molly said. “Then there will be a paper trail and they’ll come looking. But it is still odd.”

The something that had prickled in Frank’s brain came back stronger, and almost absent mindedly, Frank said. “Most of the Aurors have been busy with something else in the last two weeks. Not all of them, but there was a massive to-do in the Alley two weeks ago, and things are only just settling down.”

Molly raised her eyebrows. “What happened? I haven’t seen anything from anyone on the website.” She momentarily glared at him. “Someone should be letting me know, so I can inform parents.”

Frank winced. She was right. Admittedly, she should be coming regularly to meetings at the Sett as well, but the fact that she had a job in the Muggle world that kept her close to John was more important. “I know, I’m sorry. We’ve been busy the last couple of weeks.”

Molly frowned, and Frank fought the urge to wince again. It had been the wrong answer. “Yes.” Molly agreed tersely. “I’ve seen the graffiti.”

Frank decided to ignore her tone in the interest of self-preservation. “Do you remember Hershel’s Potion Supplies?”

Molly nodded. “Yes. It’s one of the potion supply places in the Alley.”

“The owner - Sovann Herschel - was found dead in the Alley two weeks ago.” Frank told her. “Murdered.” Molly gasped, and Frank continued. “We’re not supposed to know much about the case, but one of the young Auror candidates is a Warrior, and told us the same day as they found the body. He was badly shaken by it.” Frank’s eyebrows snapped together, and he flipped open the folder than Molly had given him. “You said the dockworker was cut open? Repeatedly?”

Molly nodded, humming her affirmation. “Mmhmm.”

“Marcus - the Auror candidate - said that Herchel’s chest looked as if it had been ground to bits. That’s not Sectumsempra - unless you cast it many times in one specific area.”

Molly paled, but tilted her head to the side in thought. “That...I mean, I wouldn’t be able to say for certain unless I saw Mr. Hershel’s body - and there’s a slim chance of that. Unless he’s been in stasis in the Ministry morgue, and even then, I’m a squib, they wouldn’t let me in unless it was on direct authority from someone high up in the Auror division or the Ministry.”

“Or John.” Frank added.

Molly shook her head. “He wouldn’t do that.”

Frank shrugged. It was true. “Based on the methods used… I’m not a firm believer in coincidences. That would make two deaths.” He said firmly. “That’s two murders, close together, both magical.”

“But not for certain.” Molly reminded, and then sagged. “What can we do about it?”

Frank huffed, the wind having gone out of his sails. “Personally? Little. If there is someone - or a group of someones - going about killing, we can’t be sure if there will be more murders. If these two cases are connected, chances are there will be, unfortunately. All we can do is keep our people safe as best we can.”

“Sherlock is investigating.” Molly reminded him. “I know you’ve never really met him, but he’s extremely smart. The minute he realizes that there is something he can’t fully explain, he’ll start thinking about magic. John’s worried about that.”

Frank thought for a moment, and then shook his head. “We’ll have to take that as it comes. Unless the man plans to shout the existence of the Wizarding World across the internet, it might not progress very far. Because he has John, things might be easily smoothed over. Then again, if he does find out, he might drop John like a hot iron.”

Molly tried to interrupt to protest, but Frank spoke over her. “I’m not saying that Sherlock will, for goodness sake the man came back from the ‘dead’ for John, but I’m just pouring over the possibilities.” Molly seemed mollified by that argument.

“Sherlock’s got a brother.” Molly also reminded him. “High up in the government, and...”

Frank’s mouth curled. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that.”

Molly stopped and stared at him, and then indicated that she was waiting for an explanation. When none was forthcoming, she rolled her eyes and didn’t press further. She would later, Frank knew. In the cunning way that no one suspected Molly actually had - the interrogation would be so light that Frank probably wouldn’t realize that it was being done.

It reminded Frank about something though, and he chuckled, and then grinned at Molly’s questioning look. “You should have been at the command meeting. When we heard about the death, Leticia suggested that we all go to battle readiness, in case it was Death Eaters.  I wanted to be conservative about it, but Leticia’s suggestion won everyone over. We haven’t told John, obviously. But we are at battle readiness levels again. That’s the other reason that we’ve been busy for the last two weeks. Most of the other Wizarding Warriors - the ones who weren’t involved in the last war - need training up to understand what “battle readiness” means. The fact that the Aurors are busy helps us a bit, actually, because they haven’t noticed that we’re all suddenly wary of everyone. We’ve put some extra guards on John too. When he finds out, he’s going to yell at me something fierce.” Frank cringed. “I hate it when Leticia is right, she won’t be overly smug, but she’ll put it across just the same.”

Molly looked amused. “She’s your second in command, she’s allowed.”

Frank’s mouth twitched again, but said. “I’ll have to tell John soon. He may not notice the guards, but he will notice the return to battle readiness if he spends enough time with any of the Wizarding Warriors.”

Molly nodded. “Send him a text, it’s the only way you can reach him when Sherlock is dragging him around. He’ll meet you somewhere, most likely, though he probably won’t go to the Sett.”

“No.” Frank sighed. “He won’t. I’ll text him.” He tucked the folder under his arm. “I’ll hold a meeting tonight or tomorrow, after I’ve had a chance to peruse this. In the mean time, John isn’t the only one getting more guards. I’m putting someone here to look after you.”

Molly started. “That’s not necessary.” She laughed, flustered. “I can’t possibly be in danger.”

“Oh, I’m not guarding you against a killer.” Frank said. “Though it’s not a bad idea. I’m guarding you against the Aurors.”

“Oh.” Molly stopped. “Alright then. I told John I’d text him if anything like that came up, but I wouldn’t mind the guards.”

“Good.” Frank said. Mentally he was reviewing who could be put on Molly’s roster. “Will you come to the next meeting? We need people to know who you are. Muggleborns will know who you are from recent years, of course, but others need to know about the site as well, why it’s important.”

Molly nodded. “Just text me a time and a date, I’ll be there! I will need someone to escort me to the Sett.”

“Your guards can do it.” Frank said. “I’ll see you soon.”

* * *

Supervisor Moragh was waiting for Bill when he arrived for work in Griznocz the next morning, with a gleam in her eye that said that she’d known he’d come to her as soon as he’d read the journal. He’d been ushered into her office by her secretary without a word, and without having made an appointment. Vaguely Bill wasn’t sure how he felt about being that predictable. She seemed pleased to see him,which lessened the hurt slightly. The curl of Supervisor Moragh’s mouth uplifted just slightly, her cheeks just a little less sallow than they had been the previous day.

Bill dropped into the small chair facing her desk after bowing respectfully and took a deep breath. “Helga Hufflepuff was a serious academic researcher of wards.” Bill stated, when Supervisor Moragh looked expectant. “And may have been the reason that Hogwarts is the way it is - was - before the second war. Why doesn’t anyone know about this?”

Supervisor Moragh looked even more pleased. “Wizards forget.” She rasped. “They keep to the lies that they are told. Hufflepuffs have been loyal since Helga Hufflepuff chose her students, not - as the lies of other Houses have spread - because they were “the rest”. She took those that the others did not want, because she recognized that all beings have potential, and welcomed all accordingly.” Supervisor Moragh peered at Bill down her long nose. Momentarily, Bill was reminded of Professor (now Headmistress) McGonagall. “Even those who were not of her species. Wizards, Mr. Weasley, only remember what is convenient. Think of Minister Fudge and his denial that He-Who-Was-Vanquished had not come back to life, until it was thrown in his face. Think of the wizards and witches who followed him in that denial, until the Death Eaters were at their doors. Think of all those who believe that Hufflepuffs are merely the dregs of the Wizarding world - and I will show you what lies were spread, information buried to suit the tales of others. To aggrandize some, and cast others in unkind lights.”

Bill felt rooted to the spot. 

“Helga Hufflepuff’s achievements were buried, in part, because there came a time where she felt that in order to preserve them, they must be hidden. And because it suited others to make the world at large believe that her achievements - wards were merely a beginning - were simple, or never existed.” Supervisor Moragh continued, leaning back in her chair. “Do you know why I chose you for this Mr. Weasley?”

“No ma’am.” Bill said honestly. Whatever he was working on now, Bill realized, was a secret that touched both the goblin and wizarding worlds, and would likely impact the wizarding world far more than it would the goblin world - Helga Hufflepuff’s mind seemed to be common knowledge here. He was now cognisant of the questions he should have asked right of the bat, first and foremost being why they would tell him something so secret.

“You are liked among goblins. You have learned our language, and you treat us with respect. Not many wizards do. Additionally, you have a keen mind, nearly like a goblin’s. You like puzzles. You are...suited to this.” Supervisor Moragh leaned forward to glare at Bill. “And the manner of your involvement in the last war means that you are able to keep secrets.”

Bill felt something stab sharply inside his stomach, but kept his face blank and nodded at her, speechless. He could not tell if Supervisor Moragh was satisfied with his non-answer, she merely took a slip of paper from a pile on her desk, and slipped it over to him. Bill took it gently, wordlessly.

“You are to be given access to one of the deeper libraries. Every day you must come to get a pass from me, and return the pass to me that same day, or you will be turned away.” Supervisor Moragh instructed. “Should you fail to do so, your privileges will be taken. All of them. You will never be able to return to Griznocz or Gringotts. Am I understood?”

“Yes.” Bill nodded, mind reeling.

“Good.” Was the reply. “Now get out, I have other meetings.”

Bill did as he was told with a respectful bow, and asked Supervisor Moragh’s secretary for directions to the library in question. 

* * *

Excerpt from Helga Hufflepuff’s journal.

_“Living stone, as I had written of it earlier, was perhaps a touch presumptuous._

_I had not had a chance to examine the castle as I had wished to for several weeks, as I had to preside over several group detentions, one chronically homesick student, and handle a group of students who swore the length and breadth of the castle that one of the staircases had started to move all on its own. I was also forced to break up a fight between Godric, Salazar, and a team of goblins who had come to the castle inquiring about some work that my friends had Owled them about. My friends somehow had thought that attempting to pay the goblins less for the work than had been originally agreed upon was a good idea. Thankfully, I was alerted to the ruckus by a student fast enough to avoid bloodshed._

_The students who swore that a staircase lurched have since retracted their statement, and the goblin representatives - those whom had fought with Godric and Salazar - were only too happy to take a look at the structure of the staircase when I asked. The staircase was unstable, and I have paid the goblins handsomely to repair it out of my own pocket._

_My chance to examine the castle finally came on one beautiful, sunny, Saturday._

_The stone of Hogwarts seems to present with a low magical hum, not audible, or the whole castle would certainly know of it. It was very hard to prove that it was even there - I had to spend my time in different areas of the castle to conclusively ascertain that it was not located just in the one spot I had originally observed it. Thankfully, I do not think many of the students observed me casting spells at the walls - they probably would have thought that I am going a bit mad. Someone started a rumor that Salazar is going in that direction - the cheek!_

_The idea of living stone has its merits however. If it could be done, and I have never heard of such a thing being attempted, what possibilities! A castle that defends itself! Alternatively, it could kick its inhabitants out of itself, and my friends would not be overly pleased with me. But that is a flight of fancy, and I should not pursue it further. Though I do think that…_

_I still feel that the castle is aware in some way. I have been back to the wall in the gardens and it seemed as if...the warmth before seemed to flow around my fingers, as if in recognition. I cannot explain it, and will not attempt to. I fear that Rowena will think me mad. I will not mention it to her unless I am certain, and can prove my conjectures._

_I have written home and requested that some of my father’s research be sent to me. He made an ardent study of wardstones. The older, the better. He had one in his collection - defunct, for the ancient place it guarded had long since crumbled - that he used as the base of his studies. I have made progress with the ward stones myself. I asked Rowena for a book of runes - they have never been my strength, I do not have the memory for them - and have chosen several to initially carve into my practice wardstones._

_The first attempt, I used the Frisian rune for stone, carved into the first of my stones. This did nothing on its own. I could still break through my simple ward on the stone with some small effort. However, intertwined with the ancient rune for ancestral land, the ward around the stone seemed to grow minutely stronger. Not by much, however. Though I could not find other runes I wished to place. I did place with them the word_ _þone*_ _for “strong”. The stone resisted my attempts to reach it initially - much more strongly than before - and then crumbled._

_I will need to further research what runes can be mixed - I shall ask Rowena for help with this. Another vein I will pursue is to_ _string whole words together, rather than runes, or perhaps mixed with runes. Infused with enough magical power from a person, persons, or even perhaps drawn from a place - this magical hum from our school gives me an idea - a ward would be strong and sustained. The wardstone would, naturally, be its anchor._

_If I cannot find enough runes to create my stones, then I will use our common tongue**. I know it, and would be able to spot mistakes easily. Or I could use Latin, though I have a feeling that the “higher” tongue would not do as well. A wardstone is of the earth, and is meant to protect things - people - of the earth. The common tongue would be closer - theoretically - to what it was meant to protect. We shall see.”_

* * *

The library that Bill had been lead to was much farther down into Griznocz than he’d ever been allowed before, much farther under London. He had no frame of reference down here. If the armed guard that had escorted Bill lost him, for even a moment, Bill wasn’t certain that he would be able to get back out again.

Whatever library this was, the contents were valuable - and Bill could tell that even without the guards that had been posted outside of its doors. He’d seen goblin preservation spells before - goblin made items, Merlin, anything that goblins prized - lasted centuries longer than their makers did. These books, however old they were, looked to be in perfect condition, and practically glowed in Bill’s sight - so bright that at first he’d had to cover his eyes and let them adjust to the glow, before moving further in. The glow wasn’t something wizards - or even goblins - saw without training. 

The sole librarian was a wizened old goblin who looked as if the preservation spells on the books had somehow bled over to his own body. When Bill showed him Supervisor Moragh’s pass, the old librarian had muttered something that Bill couldn’t identify, the goblin’s eyes going wide - before he shuffled away down the stacks so fast that Bill almost couldn’t believe it.

The librarian indicated a whole stack of books and journals that Bill was apparently meant to look through - and while Bill wasn’t necessarily daunted (ok, maybe a tiny bit) - it was quite a lot of information. 

Several hours later and his notebook, brought purposefully to jot down notes - because every researcher worth their salt carried one - was half full. He’d first started looking for other journals by Helga Hufflepuff, and had easily found them. The glowing protection spells on these books were some of the brightest. While he hadn’t even finished the journal that Supervisor Moragh had given him to study, the other journals were full of other experiments. Other things that Helga had uncovered, or helped to uncover. Bill’s mind was swarming with an overload of information - and a headache for having missed lunch in favor of doing more research. Halfway through one of the journals, Bill had realized that he hadn’t had a chance to ask Supervisor Moragh most of his questions that morning. 

Helga had been one of Rowena Ravenclaw’s favorite collaborators. Just as smart too, though her expertises lay not in huge academic puzzles, but in healing, protection, languages and, oddly enough, organization and diplomacy. Bill could see the basis for one of the best known language translation spells jotted down in a margin of one of the journals - and he knew that the spell had been fully invented a decade after the entry in the journal had been written. The credit had not gone to Helga.

Supervisor Moragh had been correct. Rowena Ravenclaw was known for working alone on these spells. They were used everyday, but Rowena had been listed as the sole author. Helga Hufflepuff’s achievements were overshadowed.  _  
_

Bill’s brow had furrowed when he’d figured that out. He didn’t do conspiracy theories. He was a cursebreaker. He liked meticulous, methodical, fascinating work. The thing with curse breaking was that everything - _everything_ \- had meaning. Every symbol, every knot of a spell, every rune, every twitch of a magical field. It all made sense. This didn’t. Goblins, for all that they were clearly the keepers of Helga Hufflepuff’s real work (beyond cleaning charms and cooking spells), would not have been able to influence the psyche of the wizarding world enough - unless it had been through finances - to forget all of this.

He could remember clearly how, at Hogwarts, people had put students of Hufflepuff down. They were usually out of sight, out of mind (unless they were Tonks) - they had no real house rivalries, most avoided conflict (unless they were Tonks, or that bloke who’d gotten petrified during Ron’s second year, or, unfortunately, the entire house when Cedric Diggory _and_ Harry Potter had been chosen for the TriWizard Tournament), but were incredibly helpful if anyone asked something of them. 

There was even an urban legend that they were ridiculously good at finding lost items - Bill couldn’t dispute it. His mentors in curse breaking had been in Hufflepuff, a married couple named Cassandra Elswyth and Riordan Brawley. The Irish pair had run into some trouble during the war because Cassandra’s mother had been a Squib, and in the eyes of Voldemort’s Ministry, that made Cassandra a muggleborn. They had first come to the Order for help, but the Order had been so small by then that protection had been out of the question. Cassandra and Riordan were some of the most mischievous people he’d ever met - aside from Fred and George, and their high curse breaking success rate - let alone the amount of lost treasure caches they’d found - made them valued employees of Gringotts.

If people knew what Helga Hufflepuff had really been up to, Hufflepuff House’s standing in the Wizarding World would rise to new heights - if enough people could be convinced. That alone was a big problem in the Wizarding World. Some things became entrenched - like blood supremacy - and were ridiculously difficult to shunt. Part of Bill wanted to know if Hufflepuffs _did_ know, and just weren’t alluding to it, keeping it to themselves, but the more rational part of Bill’s mind dismissed it.

Bill rubbed his head. The majority of the research that he had done before he’d gotten completely sidetracked had been on the first journal, on the basis that it was the information pertaining to its contents that he should be looking for. Helga’s initial experiments had gone faster, and been more productive, when she started using what was now Old English - what had been modern English to Helga - on her wardstones primarily, rather than primarily using runes. Turned out that not a lot of runes had useful translations for what she’d wanted to accomplish. Being practical, Helga turned to a language she did know. To Bill, Old English looked enough like symbols to be runes (he wasn’t going to re-distract himself by following the train of thought that told him that letters _were_ symbols and that, theoretically, if just using something that had meaning… Bill had written down his brainwave so he’d remember it, and tried not to pursue it right there and then.).

There were other components to making wardstones as well - but Bill felt the need to get food, and then go home to look over his notes.

His escort perked up immediately when he assured them that he was done for the day, and escorted him quickly back through the city. However, when they arrived back at the offices where supervisors usually did their daily managing, Supervisor Moragh was in another meeting, and not available. Bill offered to wait. He wasn’t sure if he could just leave his pass with the Supervisor’s secretary, or if Supervisor Moragh would consider his not handing it to her personally a reason to kick him off of the project.

It was almost impossible to tell this to the secretary verbally, as the door to the Supervisor’s office was wide open, and there was a great deal of shouting coming within. The goblins that he didn’t work with on a daily basis would have no way of knowing that Bill spoke their language almost fluently.

“Our searches have not uncovered Gurzak. If he has not gone into the older parts of Griznocz, some of which are impassible and inhospitable, then he has fled ether into the Muggle or Wizarding Worlds.” A gravelly voice said.

Supervisor Moragh swore loudly, and Bill nearly gave himself away by starting at the sound. Goblins rarely swore - unless truly pissed off. They viewed words as too important to use harshly unless they meant them. “Then without asking the wizards for assistance, he is beyond our reach! We will not let the Ministry into goblin affairs, the heads of the clans have already decided this.” There was silence for a moment. “We would not have known that he was connected to the deaths of two clan bankers had he not fled. We still do not know why they died in the first place!” There was fury in Supervisor Moragh’s voice. “And now we may never know! The honor of his clan and the other clans involved are in question. Some of the leaders of those clans have told the High Council that there have been murmurs of discontent within the clans since the deaths. The rumors claim that whatever had happened, must have happened because of something the leaders ordered. We cannot afford a civil war, not now. There is too much at stake!”

“Clan accountants are going over the transaction accounts of the murdered.” The other voice said more calmly, and Bill only had a moment to process “murdered” before he realized that whatever was going on had shaken the Supervisor. The guards in the room were tense, even as they listened. “The clan accountants who are looking over Gurzak’s forms have noted that some of his papers are missing. They should date to the time of the second wizard’s war.”

Supervisor Moragh swore again. “And we are sure that neither clan banker was killed by Gurzak?”

“Yes Supervisor, not unless Gurzak got ahold of a wizard’s wand and was perfectly able to use it. There is also the manner in which they were killed. They were held in place, and their bodies sliced repeatedly, until their flesh was nearly rent from their bones.”

Bill’s mind went blank. Goblins could use wands - but only for a short time. Their magic was different, did not usually need an external object to focus energy as wizards did. It hurt, apparently, as if the insides of a goblin who attempted it were going to burst into flame from the inside out. Not enough magic leaving the body to make a spell work. The more imaginative part of his brain tried to show what such a horrific death might look like, and Bill was forced to suppress a shudder of horror. He’d seen violent things in the war. He didn’t care to remember them. 

Supervisor Moragh spit. “Then a wizard killed them, and Gurzak is involved. It is not a good time for this, instability will soon spread itself over London. Soon the wizards will notice.”

There were murmurs of worried agreement in the office. Bill looked at Supervisor Moragh’s secretary, who looked as unnerved as Bill. As if he was playing charades, Bill indicated the pass, and that he’d really please like to leave. 

The goblin almost smiled. She nodded, took his pass, and waved him away. When Bill got to the surface, he went, not to the Leaky Cauldron for an extremely late lunch, but quickly changed and went into Muggle London. He sat for about half an hour, mulling over what he’d heard while nursing both coffee and a bacon sandwich. 

Murders in Griznocz. It was a shock.

Goblin society was extremely strict. If one goblin had a grievance with another, they both went to a council to determine a satisfactory end to the argument and reparations if necessary. In extremely nasty cases, a duel to the death (or first blood, dead goblins cannot make money and cannot bring value to their clan), was arranged. Heavy exchanges of money - something akin to Anglo-Saxon weregeld**, Bill had always secretly believed -  were also acceptable. Goblins murdered by a wand was another thing entirely. Because few humans were allowed in the city, the immediate suspects would be Bill and his colleagues. Except that when Bill had been given his assignment, the two murders had already been committed (Bill assumed this) and the goblin - Gurzak - had either fled, or more likely, been kidnapped. He’d actually met Gurzak, at least twice, when he’d been contracted to look for treasure for Gurzak’s clan. 

Bill looked out the window at passers-by. There was also the manner of death of the two goblins to be considered. It sounded, and he was no expert, very much like the death of the shopkeeper in Diagon Alley that he’d heard about in the Quibbler.

Supervisor Moragh was right. The goblin economy would fluctuate because of this. The goblin economy was usually stable, but a big enough scandal would rock it, such as two clans warring. Or two murders. And one possible, prominent, fugitive. 

Bill swallowed the dregs of his coffee and stood. He could bring this to the Ministry - and lose the respect of the goblins, and his job. He’d also bring the Ministry down on the goblins, which was worse. The Ministry would handle things poorly, and goblins would retaliate. And Bill, with his admiration for goblins, did not want to see that happen. He also still had the mystery of Helga Hufflepuff to solve - and he wanted to help the goblins, more so than he consciously understood. It was a fondness, he supposed, for a people and a culture he admired, and wanted to see thrive. But the Ministry were not the only people who would be interested in the goblins.

Bill made a decision, and, making sure that he was not followed, went on his way.

* * *

 

Some time later, in an unassuming building office in London, a young woman stepped into an unassuming waiting room to stand before Bill. The ginger haired man looked up at her nervously.

“While you do not have an appointment.” She said, clearly disapproving and not smiling back. “Mr. Holmes will see you now.”

She called out again before he entered the office. "Oh, and Mr. Weasley? Welcome back."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thorn_(letter)
> 
> **The ”common tongue” for Helga Hufflepuff would be what we, as speakers of what is currently Modern English, would call Old English or Anglo-Saxon, but it was Modern English to Helga. Even in Helga’s time, Old English had it’s own dialects, depending on where you lived. That holds true to this day. In any country, you will find different dialects of a common tongue.
> 
> Language however, is fluid, and what we see as Modern English will likely be different in one hundred years. The language we use every day, for example, is different from what was spoken in Victorian England or Restoration times. (Unless you live in Tangier, Virginia. In which case you still speak a version of Restoration English!)
> 
> ***Weregeld was essentially a “price” for killing, injuring, or harming property of people in proto Germanic tribes - but was used across the globe in different forms. You can find a use of weregeld in the epic poem Beowulf. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Weregeld
> 
> For the goblins, weregeld can be used as a payment to offset bloodshed or harm done to another goblin, or to remediate an insult. Weregeld can be exchanged between goblins, or between clans, but goblins rarely exchange weregeld with wizards. For goblins, an exchange of money is twofold. First is the acknowledgement that one has done wrong, and the loss of money equals a loss in fortune, personal gain, and in some cases, social standing - a fitting punishment for a people that value worth. The second is that, through the exchange of money, accounts have been “settled”, and further antagonism by either party, will null and void the exchange. In ideal circumstances, both parties should walk away and never mention it again. Should further antagonism occur, it is a slight not only to both the goblins in question, but to their families and their clans as well. Any wars that break out between goblins because of this will be blamed on the original pair - who will be killed to satisfy both sides of the conflict.


	10. Marching Orders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A night with the Muggle members of Watson's Warriors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought, since all of the focus of the story so far has been on the Wizarding World side of things, it might be fun to give you all a glimpse of the non-Wizarding section of Watson’s Warriors Warriors, and what they do. I’ve had this in mind for a while. It’s not meant to be a filler chapter, just a further glimpse of the world that sort of opened up in my head. (Which may or may not have been why it took so long to write.)
> 
> Also, readers further interested in the business of Watson’s Warriors may want to take a look at our Essays, Conversations and Appendices (also codenamed BadgerTalks, sorry Phoenix!). The second chapter is a Warriors-centric story that didn’t quite fit in here. Go read!
> 
> In addition, there is a slowly developing area map for the Master of London, showing the location of important Muggle and Wizarding Warrior’s areas. This includes the locations and patrol areas (what we believe the locations to be) of Diagon Alley, the Badger’s Sett, and the King’s Cross outpost. I’ll post the snapshots in the appendices as soon as they are finished. 
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

The workday was ending all over London. Men and women, young and old, put on their coats and headed for their cars, or for the Tube, envisioning a good, hot meal, perhaps a bit of dessert, and then an hour or so on the telly.

Others however, planned on doing something else entirely.

In Canary Wharf, a young man put on his coat, having already changed out of his business suit into casual clothes. From a desk drawer, he pulled out a yellow and black scarf, balled up, as if it had been thrown there in haste that morning. He waited to wrap the deliciously warm scarf around his neck until he was in the lobby of the building, amidst the teeming mass of people heading rapidly for the doors. He stood, brightly colored, whilst a sea of grey tones moved around him, looking for someone. Spotting a similar scarf, he moved off to greet them, and followed his companion out the door.

All across London, in neighborhoods, workplaces, in tiny garages and in schoolyards, the same thing was happening - people exchanging their daywear for a yellow scarf and warm, comfortable clothes. Then they converged, alone or in groups, meandering through the streets of a London all too happy to help them, aiming for the doorway of two twenty one Baker Street.

By the time dusk had started to creep over the horizon, over one hundred men and women were clustered both inside and just outside the house, all clutching cups of hot cocoa and scones.  Inside, a new rotation of cooks worked their edible magic in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen, preparing to feed them all. Dozens of others streamed away from Baker Street, the exhausted day shift of Watson’s Warriors, going home to their beds or to their families, but still wearing their own yellow scarves. They left in large groups, tired, but happy, boisterous even, and declaring that they will see each other tomorrow. Same time, same place.

Inside two twenty one Baker Street, the only place to stand where everyone (barring the kitchen, as the door has been closed so that the clang of pots and spoons scraping across the bottom of plates is not deafening) could hear someone addressing them was the bottom few steps of the main staircase. The landing above that, everyone knows, is the rented property of Mr Holmes and John Watson, and any attempt to go up and see them if not on Official Business (or By Invitation) results in being told to Leave Watson’s Warriors and Not Come Back.

Still, more often than not, John Watson came downstairs to help out, or join the meetings, to keep up to date on what’s going on, what needed to be done. When that happened, Sherlock Holmes would come fluidly down no more than ten minutes later, looking for his friend/flatmate/blogger/colleague (the need to make sure that John is about and safe is noted by all the Warriors, but never commented on aloud) and stay too - usually to snark at anyone in the immediate vicinity (especially at anyone in the vicinity of John, even more especially those who might try to take John away for the evening on _dates_ ), but he did sometimes stay to help or listen to his homeless network.

The homeless network was there too, wandering about the crowd. They came to barter for goods, for information, advice, and for decent conversation. Some of them steal extra helpings of whatever meal is being served at the time, but no one calls them on it. Mrs. Hudson has been known to send some of them home with bags of extras. The homeless network is integral to the Warriors, after all, and they have no inclination to leave. They’ve been helped by the Warriors - in some ways, more so than any other organization. With the Warriors, they’re not treated as outsiders who need help, but as people who can give something valuable back to those who are helping them, and thus, London itself. Because that, in the end, was what John wanted.

Amidst the chaos, Mrs. Hudson - she of the sharp knitting needles and sweet demeanor - flitted about, chatting, gossiping, laughing with the friends she’d made in the Warriors. It was nice, she’d once said, to have the house so lively again, even livelier than when Sherlock and John had been her sole tenants. It was if, Mrs. Hudson had speculated, the house felt more alive than it ever had before with all these people passing through it. Even so, her meanderings through the crowd of Warriors had a definitive route, from the outside where she’d been greeting the Warriors who couldn’t fit indoors - and where she’d picked up a bodyguard, a giant, tattooed bruiser of a fellow named Elias (who was actually very kind, and worked in an animal shelter when he wasn’t at Baker Street. Proof that appearances could be deceiving), who wandered behind her, watching out for anyone who he might have to toss from the building. Like nosy journalists.

Mrs. Hudson slowly followed her route. Her trail went into the house, through her own apartment - avoiding the kitchen - until she ended up, as she had intended to, at the foot of the stairs going up to the second floor landing.

Once by the stairs, the landlady ascended a few steps, and then turned to face the chattering crowd. She’s tiny, compared to many of them, but fierce (And she is quite fierce. There are legends of her ability to chide others - including Sherlock - into submission. No one talks about the Knitting Needle Incidents unless they have to). Taking ahold of the megaphone, passed to her by one of the various Warriors designated the task of giving Mrs. Hudson whatever she needed, any time of day, Mrs. Hudson turned it on and brought it to her lips.

“Oi! You lot!” Mrs. Hudson called out. The din both inside and outside 221 Baker Street ceased immediately (discounting the sound of happy munching). “Hello.” Mrs. Hudson said more softly, smiling brightly into the quiet. A hundred plus voices chorused a ‘good evening Mrs. Hudson’ right back.

“Good evening. We’ve got a full rotation tonight, because so many of you showed up - thank you for that.” Mrs. Hudson said, still smiling at them. Many of the Warriors smiled back, pleased. “I have a few announcements to make and then I will read off the list of tonight’s postings. To start with, the third annual Warriors Appreciation Party will be held a month and a half from now-” there was a loud cheer at the pronouncement. “For any of you who haven’t been to one yet, the tickets are free - the same benefactor donated funds for it as they did last year - and once again, the party will be held in Ironmonger’s Hall*-” more cheers erupted. “All you all need to do is show up! It’s not a formal event, but it’s not casual either. I don’t want to see any of you turning up in tatty clothes, am I understood? Yes, I do mean you Gordon.” There were a few sniggers in chorus with the chant of “Yes Mrs. Hudson.” Mrs. Hudson nodded, taking her eyes and her fond glare off of the blushing, embarrassed face of the Gordon in question. “Good. Next, there is a sign up sheet for another round of self-defense lessons taught by a few Warriors on the corkboard just outside the house, everyone is encouraged to attend. They need volunteers to help teach the next round of classes after this one, so if you’ve got any experience at all, put a star next to your name on the list, please.”

“Anything for you Mrs. Hudson.” A gruff male voice shouted at the back, to much laughter and Mrs. Hudson’s blush.

“I’ll talk to you later Jimmy.”, Mrs. Hudson said, clearing her throat and holding up the clipboard that she had been handed along with the microphone - and talking over the laughter that had erupted from her reply. “Now, for the potential assignments. Once you’ve got your assignments, I - and John - insist that you follow follow your guards to your stations. We don’t want a repeat of that attempted mugging two weeks ago when a few of you all decided to go it alone, early in the morning, in the dark.” She gave the group a stern glare. “You’re lucky that we send more guards with every group than it technically needs, and two of them followed those of you who broke off from the pack. New Scotland Yard was not pleased, both by the fact that some of you thought that you were invincible, and by the apparent ‘attempted vigilantism’. We are trying to stay on their good side, remember?” She took a deep breath. “And I don’t like worrying about you all.”

She continued to address a more sober audience. “Tonight we need to have seven people at the Veteran’s Help Office. There’s been more interest growing from veterans and the families they’ve been returning to. The regular staff for the Office is there tonight, but they’ve been swamped lately. We need four people to process requests and meet with veterans. We need three others who are good at computers. Any volunteers shouldn’t mind doing a bit of filing. Any takers?”

Eight people’s hands shot up in the air. Mrs. Hudson nodded in satisfaction. Seven was what had been asked for, eight was better. She quickly took their names down, but the volunteers remained in their spots - they wouldn’t move until after they’d been dismissed.

“Two soup kitchens in the area approached the Warriors requesting help tonight. We need two full crews - one crew to each soup kitchen. A full crew means ten people minimum, twelve at the most. Who wants to go?” Many hands shot up at this.

Mrs. Hudson was smiling now, quite a few more than necessary had volunteered, again. But there were still assignments to be handed out.

“Excellent! Now, closer to home, we need more volunteers for the Baker Street patrol, and the Euston Road** contingent need some volunteers for the night as well. The Leadenhill Market*** group say that they’ve already contacted people that they need. As always, anyone who chooses these assignments will get hand and foot warmers, cups of hot chocolate, and a break for thawing out between patrol circuits. Any volunteers for Baker Street and Euston?” Less people volunteered for patrol, but it was nippy out, and unless they had friends also volunteering, the majority of the Warriors who could stay inside, would.

The rest of the list went just as quickly, most of the volunteers being sectioned out to work for the night at the recreation center that the Warriors had set up in a community hall elsewhere. Some went to pick up the donations for the food pantry from various locations around the city. Lastly, some stayed around Baker Street to help with administrative duties. When through, Mrs. Hudson took one last look at the volunteers fondly. While she’d been speaking, a variable collection of the volunteers who had signed up for kitchen duty had been sneaking in and out of the kitchen doorway, passing paper plates laden with food to the rest of the Warriors. Almost like a wave, the food had spread outwards, until she, Elias, and the notetaker next to them were the only ones without plates.

“You can all head out once you’re finished.” Mrs. Hudson said more gently into the megaphone. “And do stay safe!”

The silent sound of very happy eaters filled the building. Within a moment however, Sherlock’s violin started up in the living room upstairs, and things returned to normal. Mrs. Hudson handed her megaphone to a Warrior, who took it and stowed it away wherever was that they kept it, and took Elias and the note taker to the kitchen for some supper.

An hour later, six of the Baker Street patrol group left the area, escorting a group of eight Warriors to the Veteran’s Help Office, which was located near Oxford Circus. It wasn’t even that late in the evening, but the Warriors were following normal, cautious procedures.

When the Warriors had grown in numbers, grown in earnest, there had been more than a few people who had not been pleased with the sudden surge of volunteerism - and the belief in Sherlock Holmes. Three years ago, the Warriors had been met with rows upon rows of hecklers, rotten tomatoes, and journalists. Sometimes they’d faced worse, both on the streets and at home, even at work. Somehow, it had made the Warriors stronger, not weaker. It wasn’t to say that the Warriors could walk the streets openly and safely all the time. There were still scattered incidents - a random beating, harassment. Which was why the patrols were so important, why each group who left Baker Street for their assignments had guards, and were escorted back to Baker Street by guard at the end of their shifts. People had gotten used to them, yeah, most people didn’t even mind that the Warriors existed now  - they were seen as a huge help by quite a few people - but there would always be holdouts. The tentative endorsement they’d received from Scotland Yard had also helped in some ways - along with the implied fact that there were a few members of the constabulary in the Warrior’s ranks who would not hesitate to arrest anyone harassing them.

The Veteran’s Help Office was a small place, an office suite located on the second floor of an old but not dilapidated building. The whole place had been refurbished with the initial money that the small non-profit had been able to scrounge up. Since then demand for services had skyrocketed, so the organization’s leader had approached the Warriors for staffing help. John Watson had even come to the first day of volunteering for the VHO, telling a story of needing such help when he’d first been discharged from the army. There’d been no one like the VHO to provide such cohesive help.

The waiting room for the small office was moderately filled when the Warriors stamped inside, the guard making sure that their charges were accounted for before slipping back to Baker Street - leaving instructions with the VHO volunteers to call the Warrior’s outpost at 221B when they wanted to go home. The entrance of the Warriors had been marked with interest by the occupants of the waiting room, some more than others. One, a younger man with his military duffle by his feet, was watching with undisguised curiosity.

The lady running the office, an older woman by the name of Amanda Gadshaw, quickly parsed out duties to the Warriors and set them to their tasks. Four of the eight would be helping register requests for aid - the forms were on the necessary tables - while two Warriors entered them into the computer database. The last two Warriors would be filing, and making the tea.

Milo Lewis was one of those assigned to register requests for aid from the VHO. At twenty-five, the very junior banker was extremely familiar with filling out countless amounts of paperwork. It was not his first time at the VHO as a Warriors volunteer either. Milo had an older brother in the RAF, who had joined up when he’d been eighteen. While Sam was guaranteed a place to stay with their parents whenever he came home, Sam’s emails were sometimes full of stories about other servicemen and servicewomen - friends or not - some of whom had nowhere to go, and no idea what to do with themselves after discharge. Milo had volunteered for VHO duty initially because he’d needed to feel that he could help in some small way. Milo went into one of the offices off of the waiting room and took a seat behind the cheap pine desk, his eyes going over the forms neatly scattered there to determine if anything was missing. He took off his gloves, stuffed them in his coat pockets and twisted around to hang it perilously on the back of the cheap office chair he sat on. He decided to leave his Warrior’s scarf on, like an identification marker.

His first case of the evening was shown into the office by Ms. Gadshaw within five minutes of his attempt at organizing the papers on the desk - they seemed to have just been flung there. His case was the young soldier who’d been watching the Warriors arrive with keen interest. The young man lingering in the doorway looked a bit nervous, his dufflebag dangling in one hand, but he was looking as curiously at Milo as Milo was at him.

“Hello.” Milo said. “Come on in.”

The soldier did, his eyes lingering on the Warrior’s scarf, before sitting in the chair across from Milo, his duffle disappearing behind the desk. Milo extended a hand. “I’m Milo Lewis.”

The soldier looked as if he was thinking about taking Milo’s hand or not, before reaching out and taking it. “Sergeant Noah Wills, sir.”

Milo smiled. “Nice to meet you. And it’s just Milo. How long have you been back in the UK?”

Sargent Wills - Noah - shrugged slightly. “‘Bout a day.”

Milo nodded in understanding while internally wondering if getting any information out of Noah was going to be like pulling teeth. “Can I ask you what brought you to the Veteran’s Help Office?”

Noah moved uncomfortably in his chair. “I don’t - I don’t really have any family - none in the UK that I’d want to go see at any rate, and I’ve got nowhere to go. I’ve a sister in the States, but, uh, I can’t really afford a hotel room right now, let alone a plane ticket. One of my mates, he got discharged last year, was in kind of the same boat, and had heard about this place that’d help us.  He gave me the name of the people who’d helped him, like. I rec'd that it was worth a try.” As an afterthought he added “do you think they’ll give me more of those cookies in the waiting room, if I asked?”

Milo gave his sympathies, and then put his hands on the desk, leaning forward. “Well then, I’ll try to help you as best I can. Including getting more cookies.” He said, trying to smile reassuringly - the cookie comment got him a grin. “I think we should start by telling you what the Veteran’s Help Office will try do for you, and your sister, starting with the fact that if you ever need anything, just call this office - I’ll give you a card - and ask for me. They’ll find me any day or night and I’ll call you back within the hour.”

One of Noah’s eyebrows rose. Milo continued, “think of me as a caseworker. But not. I’m more reachable, for starters, and part of being a volunteer here is being available as much as possible. We’re here to help you back into civilian life, unless you plan to reenlist of course. You don’t have to call at all, if you don’t want. It’s up to you. One thing though, get into any serious trouble with drugs, or the police, and I’m afraid it’s out of my hands. I won’t be posting bail or anything, neither will the VHO.”

Noah nodded slowly, taking Milo’s comments in. “‘S kind of strange, you being reachable any time.”

Milo shrugged. “That’s what we’re here for. It’s like I’m a friend, with a lot of helpful information on my hands. And a lot of free time on my hands, apparently.”

Noah’s mouth twitched, and his eyes lingered on Milo’s scarf again before glancing up at Milo again. “Are you one of those Watson’s Warriors? I’ve seen them on the internet.”

Milo grinned widely at that. Clearly the Warriors were getting recognition in places they’d never thought of. “Maybe.” He said. “I’ll tell you about the Warriors when we’re done.” It was very clearly a bribe.

Noah took it. For the first time he smiled and relaxed into the chair, almost slouching backwards. “Ok. What do you need to know?”

“I’m going to have to have you fill out these forms, we just need your basic details first” Milo indicated which ones he meant. “Have you told your sister that you’re back in England yet?”

“No.”

“Ok, If you want you can call her on a VHO phone, if you don’t have a cell phone.”

Noah dug into his pocket and held up a cheap, battered, cell phone. “Got one.”

“Good! Now, do you have a place to stay? At least one you can go to for six months or more, while you get settled into what you might do now? I remember you saying something about a hotel room?”

Noah shrugged again. “Yeah, I stayed in a hotel last night. Don’t really want to again though. Too loud.”

“There are families associated with the VHO who have family members who are in the service and are willing to take in recently discharged personnel. Would that be acceptable? Some have kids, some don’t. And I can’t promised that things won’t be crowded or stressful. You might even have to do chores.”

“I can do that.” Noah replied.

Milo jotted a note down on a post-it note, and then stood up. “Ok, give me a second.” Milo strode to the door and looked for the nearest Warrior who was on tea duty. “Prim? Would it be possible to find a family willing to take house a man, starting tonight?”

Prim (technically it was Primula, but no one was allowed to call her that under threat of spray painted clothing), set her teacup down. “I can try to find someone. No promises though.”

When Milo got back to the office, Noah was filing out his paperwork - taking the initiative apparently. Milo took his seat again. “Hopefully, we’ll have you with someone by tonight.”

Noah looked skeptical, but didn’t say anything against it. “I’m almost done with the paperwork.” He said.

“Excellent.” Milo replied, and leaned back in his chair. “I’m being presumptuous, you only just getting back from the war and all, but - do you have any idea of what you want to do now, for work?”

Noah looked a little guarded. “I’d like to go to school, to Uni. I don’t know what for yet though.”

Milo beamed. “I think we can help with that too.”

* * *

One of the two soup kitchens that the Warriors were helping tonight was located in the area of Westminster. It was not a large place, but being near the center of London as it was, it was large enough to house a moderately large industrial kitchen, a seating area with space for a modestly large amount of diners, and a tiny goods market tucked away in the back. It was a place that both Warriors and the Homeless Network frequented, the Warriors tending to come and help out even when not on duty. It was a cheerful place, not just a place to eat, but a meeting place, a place of warmth and respect, and the volunteers were there to both guard that feeling and facilitate it as best they could.

When the Warriors walked in, a cheer went up both from those waiting for food and those who normally staffed the soup kitchen. Several of the Warriors went over to homeless people they knew, hugging, asking after their health. The other Warriors, many of whom had been to the kitchen before, quickly went around and introduced those Warriors who had not been there before - the new Warriors looked more or less overwhelmed, but were calmed down by every friendly smile they received. The children running about helped - one returning Warrior was forced to stand still for a few minutes when a child hugged her legs and refused to let go until she’d met the child’s stuffed dragon.

The more experienced Warriors knew what they were doing. Within fifteen minutes, they had all stripped out of their coats - leaving their scarves on - and had outfitted the entire group with green aprons and sharpie bedecked name tags. The manager on duty at the kitchen, an older man came out to address the volunteers.

“Good evening. Welcome back, all of you who have been here before, and thank you to anyone who is new here. It is good to see you! We very much enjoy having you come and volunteer with us. For those of you who do not know, I am Govind Mehra, I helped to start this kitchen a few years ago. We have had a growth in how many people we attract here, for the food and for other things - child care help, basic goods, meeting with social workers, and learn to read programs. We insist that as a volunteer here, you treat anyone who comes through our doors as you would treat yourself - with honor, dignity, and respect. It does not matter why or how a person ended up here, it matters that this is a safe place for all ages. You are also here to have fun. Volunteering is a good thing to do, but it is made better if you enjoy it.”

“Tonight we will be cooking and serving baked chicken, with potatoes, broccoli and carrots. We will have bread pudding for dessert, and oranges for people to take with them. “

“We need most of you to help us finish making the food, and a group of three spotters who will finish putting the food on plates and pass the finished plates off to the volunteers passing out food. Lastly, we will all be helping with cleanup, after dinner is over. Are there any questions?”

“No, Mr. Mehra.” Several of the more experienced Warrior’s chorused, earning a small smile from the man.

“Excellent!” He said brightly, and then began breaking up the crew for their assignments.

Edie Barath took her place as one of the spotters, halfway inside the kitchen, just behind the counter. It was her favorite spot in the whole of the soup kitchen. She could not only interact with the other Warriors and soup kitchen volunteers, but she could also call out to any of the soup kitchen’s visitors as well. It was fortuitous - not really, she’d volunteered for it - that her friend Ojal Shah was one of the night’s “wait staff”, so they could still gossip as well.

“Oi, Ojal?” Edie called to Ojal, who was sorting knives and forks on the opposite side of the counter, just a little further down.

“What?” Ojal replied, not looking up. “Your pinny is too long.”

“What?!” Edie looked down - sure enough, the apron she was wearing needed to be rolled up a bit. She huffed, fixed it, and went back to bothering Ojal, who was now almost done with the sorting. “I hate how you know that without looking at me.” At Ojal’s grin, Edie stuck her tongue out. “Are we still on for Sunday brunch?”

Ojal looked up. “Yeah! Of course! But can we make it an early brunch, I’m on call for the Warriors in the afternoon.”

Edie shrugged, coming closer. “I don’t see why not. What are you on call for?”

“I’m filling in for Denise, her four year old came down with the chicken pox. Denise usually helps out with admin at two twenty one, so at least I’ll be inside and stealing cookies.”

Edie nodded, and then cocked her head to the side. “Actually, while you’re there Sunday, would you mind telling me if you see Henry about? I’ve something to ask him.”

“Henry? You mean Henry Knight?” Ojal put down the last fork, her brow furrowed in thought. “Actually, I haven’t seen him around for a bit. Last I heard, he and Frank were off doing something Warriors related. Dunno what, but Frank’s always been a bit secretive.”

Edie bit her lip. “Air of mystery about him, that one. I rather like him.”

Ojal smirked. “I know you do. Henry Knight’s not so bad himself. I know you didn’t see him in the beginning, but he was shy and almost painfully awkward. Ok, he still is a bit, but he’s grown a very lovely backbone since then.” Her forehead creased. “Still, it’s been a while. I’ll ask around on Sunday.”

“Thanks.”

“What did you want to ask him about anyway?”

“Well, I-” Edie began, but was interrupted by an older voice.

“When’s the food coming out, love? I’m starving.”

Edie smiled softly at the sight of Mrs. Henderson peeking over the counter at the food preparation. The older woman wasn’t part of the Homeless Network, she was elderly, after all, and frail, but she was a frequent visitor to this particular soup kitchen. She was sweet, tough but sweet. No family to speak of that anyone knew about, or that Mrs. Henderson would admit to having. But it was one of those things. If a person didn’t want to say, then they didn’t, and you weren’t supposed to press them on the details of their lives.

Edie came over. “Not sure when, I’m sorry.” She looked around. “I might be able to find something to tide you over.”

Mrs. Henderson’s face lit up. “Oooh. That would be nice. Thank you, love.”

Edie smiled, and went to go filch something from a nearby cupboard. Ojal moved closer. “Hello Mrs. Henderson.”

Mrs. Henderson looked at Ojal, fiddling with the ragged sleeves of a long, worn coat. “Hello...I’m sorry. There are so many of you, and you all dress the same…”

Ojal shook her head. “It’s alright.” She said reassuringly. “I’m Ojal, and that was Edie. We’ve been in here a few times before. How are you?”

Mrs. Henderson nodded. “Oh, I’m fine. Doing my best. There’s a nice little hidey hole I’ve managed to find with a friend. It’s cosy enough.”

Ojal smiled. “Good. Do you need anything? Because-”

“Probably dear. But don’t fuss, I’ll get some things before I  go.”

Edie came running back, breathless, handing over a packet of peanut butter crackers and a small box of raisins. “This is all I could grab.”

Mrs. Henderson’s smile was practically beatific. It continued even after she’d popped open the packet and downed half of the peanut butter crackers. “It’s been ages since I’ve had any of these.”

Ojal made a mental note to buy some from the tiny goods store and give a bag of them to Mrs. Henderson before the older woman left for the night.

There was a shout from the back of the kitchen. While they’d been setting up and jabbering at one another, the food was being cooked, and looked as if it was all going to be done soon, ready to be put on plates. Mrs. Henderson watched the commotion with some amusement from around her peanut butter crackers. “Oh, look at you all bustling about in a tizzy. You look like a swarm of large bumblebees!”

Both Ojal and Edie looked at their yellow and black scarves, and then had to duck their heads to hide their grins before agreeing. It was a comparison that had not gone unnoticed by the Warriors before.

Mrs. Henderson toddled off back to her seat at the now rapidly filling tables in the soup kitchen’s eating area. So close to dinnertime it looked as if they’d have a full house to feed. Ojal and Edie got back to work, eventually having to stop gossiping between each other entirely.

Plate after plate started to leave the kitchen, and Edie fell into a sort of rhythm. Baked chicken on the plastic plate first, the broccoli and the carrots next, piled in colorful little mountains next to it, and the halved fingerling potatoes last. Edie couldn’t keep track of how many plates she put together, set on the counter, and watched as either Ojal or another one of the wait staff carried it off. In her mind, the number of plates just grew exponentially and never really stopped.

Ojal felt harried, but tried not to let it show. There were a lot of plates. But it was worth it. Whenever she approached a table and put a plate down in front of one of the soup kitchen’s patrons, they’d cheer, or smile, or even gasp in delight. No one forgot to say thank you, and Ojal happily replied that it’s “no problem” and to “let her know if they want any more, and she’ll find out if there will be enough for a second plate”. She liked doing this bit - it’s why she volunteered for the soup kitchens whenever a call came out for it from the Warriors. It was less about feeling good or about having done something good - it was more about the people she’d met, had the privilege to meet.

There is an old man who doesn’t have much to live on from his pension, especially after paying for medical care for his ailing wife. But he always lights up when he tells stories about her, about how they first met, about things they did when they were young after the war. He takes home food for her too, in a little paper carton and a plastic bag that he cradles gingerly, as if it’s something precious. There’s a young mum with her tiny son, trying to make ends meet after the father of the little boy walked out on both of them, and refused to pay child support. The little boy is a treat, and his best friend is a little girl from another family who also visit regularly, in part because of financial hardship, but also to let the two play together.

There’s a little huddle of women too, of all ages,  who sit at a table together and complain about the people - sometimes spouses, or ex-spouses - who’ve driven them here. But not always. Some nights they laugh raucously, poking fun at each other, or things they’ve seen in shelters or on the streets, or make salacious jokes at the Warriors. Those nights are always the best.  Some nights they’re somber, one woman dragging a new woman in with them. Sometimes the new women look excited. Sometimes, they’re carrying a bag and bruises. Those nights, a pro-bono lawyer and a representative of a local woman’s shelter show up too. When that happens, the Warriors take special care to find out what’s going on, take names, and alert patrols. They’re not vigilantes, but they can always look for lurkers, and alert police if they need to.

By the time that the bread pudding was ready to come out - it had been in the oven before the Warriors had even shown up for the night - the mood in the soup kitchen was light. Chatter could be heard in all corners of the soup kitchen. Some of the youngest kids were sound asleep on various people’s laps or shoulders.

The Warriors handed out dessert and the fruit cups for everyone to take home, and joined whatever tables there was room at, to talk, and listen, and take breather, and enjoy some of the extra bread pudding. Mrs. Henderson’s bee comment seemed to have gone around, and because there was honey in the bread pudding, the jokes fly.

By the time that cleanup is done, it’s almost ten thirty at night, the soup kitchen’s patrons  are heading home, or to shelters, or to the streets. The Warriors were exhausted. Their guards have shown up already - they’d still got a long night ahead of them. Mr. Mehra shook each of their hands as they left, thanking them for coming, and told them that he hopes to see them again soon.

On the way back to Baker Street, half of the guard split off to take people to the Tube, if that’s where they’re headed. Ojal and Edie split off with them. Before they part on the train, Edie suddenly grinned, pulled her scarf tighter around her neck, and poked Ojal in the side. Ojal spluttered. “What on earth are you -”

“Bzzz.” Edie winked at her. “I’m a bumblebee, I sting.”

Ojal’s unimpressed expression kept Edie laughing the whole way home.

* * *

Patrol was, as per the nature of the job, not a favorite task among Watson’s Warriors. You did it in the cold, in the rain, in the snow, and at all hours of the day or night, and you had a chance of being injured. At the same time, it was one of them most enjoyable tasks that a Warrior got to do. You got to walk around London, chat with people, take photos with tourists who’d heard about the Warriors, get free treats from various businesses, and have a good time in general. The dichotomy was not lost on the people who volunteered for it.

Patrol didn’t just mean wandering about Baker Street or any of the other Warrior hideouts either. There was escorting other Warriors to and from their destinations and passing information from homeless networks to the administration, or even Sherlock Holmes. At times, patrol was mind numbing, other times, it was both terrifying and exciting. If you had night shift it was also exhausting; it was a long shift, you had to know that you weren’t going to work the next morning because you’d need the sleep.

At the start, when there hadn’t been many of them, Patrol had been more than a little terrifying. The half of London that didn’t believe in John Watson or Sherlock Holmes had been downright nasty. More than a few Warriors had arrests for ‘disturbing the peace’ on their records or been caught with spray cans. Some people had ended up in hospital.

On nights like this one, where London was (relatively) quiet, and it was still a bit nippy outdoors, you hoped that nothing untoward did happen, because all you wanted to do was loop back to headquarters and drown in hot cocoa. Teams of Warriors were sent out on patrol fifteen minutes apart. A normal patrol was about forty five minutes long, followed by a decent twenty minutes spent thawing out inside with hot cocoa, and then they were off again.

Each patrol team was made up of five Warriors - a little too many to attack outright, too few to cause a real ruckus. Shifts ran from the break of the general assembly at Baker Street, for about six hours. If the assembly happened at six, then a general shift would be from six to one in the morning. After that, the next shift would come. There were people - patrol coordinators, people like Henry Knight - people who had more time to work for Watson's Warriors rather than just volunteer, who staffed the Patrol offices almost full time, so there was always a backup to the volunteer patrols, just in case something got nasty.

It was only a couple of hours into the patrol shift of the evening, and Hank Turbot was already wrapping his scarf around his face as the temperature kept dropping, to the amusement of his team.

“It’s seriously not that bad.” Nicholas Giddings was laughing. “It’s a bit chilly, yeah, but-”

“Leave ‘im be.” Jacob Wray yelled at him, though he was also laughing. “If Hank’s a bit delicate-”

“I’m just bundling up. For goodness’ sake!” Hank complained, the statement slightly muffled through his scarf.

“You’d think we were in the arctic.” Nicholas teased, looking about the busy roads around King’s Cross.

“You’ll wish you’d done the same, when we wander down some side street and it feels like a wind tunnel.” Hank drawled back. He’d been on patrol long enough over the last year to know what he was talking about.

Patrol wasn’t done by a set route each night. That would be too predictable, and it would allow attackers the chance to learn a patrol group’s movements. Instead, a patrol was allowed to wander all over specific areas - each patrol group was given a certain amount of leeway in how much ground they covered, but they had to submit their chosen routes through their assigned areas before they left for that day’s patrol. In that way, they could make sure that every inch of ground was covered. Each patrol area in itself was massive, so it worked out quite well, considering the number of patrol groups out at any one time.

Euston Patrol Group Seven were deviating from their normal route tonight, helping out Patrol Area 2 with a little bit of cross coverage by King’s Cross itself. Instead of following Euston Road down to Midland Road and continuing on Midland, this patrol group had stopped the block before the Hotel Montana and had gone up the A5202 instead.

They’d been walking slowly for several hours - because walking slowly, but naturally so, was the key to observing, making sure that everything was alright - making for one of the major points in their patrol, Mornington Crescent. It wasn’t their first pass of the night, they’d been by at least twice before. It only took twenty minutes to get there from King’s Cross Station, after all.

“At least it’s not January.” Nicholas shuddered. “I hate the late night shift in the dead of winter.”

“Then maybe you should stop volunteering for it.” Jacob called. He was behind them with Shawn, a new addition to the patrol group, and was showing him the ins and outs.

Nicholas turned around and stuck his tongue out, before turning back to Hank, who had chuckled behind his scarf. “Its not that bad.” Nicholas said more quietly. “There’s a Starbucks that sometimes leaves us coffee if we come by just after closing.”

“That’s nice of them.”

“Well, we did help out when they were being robbed last year.” Nicholas shrugged. “That extra bit of training that Frank’s been insisting on is a good thing. Dunno why it’s come up so suddenly though.”

“It’s a good idea.” Hank admitted. “I was getting a bit rusty, and there are people who’ve only joined in the last year who were a bit hazy on the procedures.”

“Yeah.” Nicholas patted his jacket pocket. “Never thought I’d be glad to have practically a whole medical textbook’s worth of knowledge on my poor, abused, smartphone.”

Hank laughed. “And what about those alerts? Remember when Frank had us test the alert system on the phones with everyone’s volume turned up loud? I thought my ears were going to ring forever.”

“It’s a good system though.” Nicholas said, in it’s defense. Each patrol team was obligated to have at least one person on the team who had a smartphone. An app, downloaded to the phone, caused both a text and audio alert to be sent out to every Warrior in the area if a team encountered trouble. All a Warrior had to do, was press the ‘big red button’. A muted version of the alarm could be sent as well, if the Warrior team had noticed something but hadn’t engaged yet. The texts were then sent to the police by people at the closest Warrior’s headquarters.

“Not saying it isn’t - it’s a brilliant thing to have.” Hank replied. “I’m just more grateful for the self defense training.” He blinked. “Hey, Almas!” He called to the fifth member of the patrol group, who was walking slightly ahead. “Have you been through training yet?”

Almas turned around, but kept walking - backwards. “I’ve been to one of the sessions.” He said, slightly embarrassed. “The one where they talk about the structure of the patrols?”

Hank and Nicholas moaned. “Almas, mate.” Nicholas said, with an almost pained expression. “You need to tell us these things. You shouldn’t even be on patrol without having gone to all the sessions!”

“I’ve got some martial arts training!” Almas protested.

Hank ignored him and turned around to call at Jacob. “Jay, Almas hasn’t been to all the sessions.” Jacob was, technically, the most experienced of the team, and therefore this patrol group’s leader.

“What!?” Jacob squawked, and walked faster, so that Shawn and he were walking beside Hank and Nicholas. “Shawn, you walk with these louts. Almas, you’re with me.”

They switched places, so that Hank was walking point now, and Almas was walking in back with Jacob, where there was some furious whispering going on. Nicholas bit his lip, shook his head, and scrunched his gloved fingers deeper into his coat pockets.

“Don’t tell Hank.” Nicholas stage whispered to Shawn, “but it really is getting bloody freezing.”

Shawn grinned. “Won’t say a word,” he said. “Is patrol always like this?”

“Yeah.” Nicholas shrugged. “And no. It can be a lot more fun, at times, but it’s not bad. You make good friends.”

Shawn nodded. He couldn’t have been more than nineteen. “Why’d you join up?” Shawn asked, after a moment.

Nicholas snorted. “Honestly, you go and make it sound like the Army! I dunno really. I’d just gotten out of Uni, and couldn’t get a job. I was - angry, I suppose is the best word for it. My Mum and Dad had shelled out thousands of pounds for me to get a decent education, with a decent job at the end - and nothing. And then I saw this group doing stuff out on the street, saw them on the news as well. I needed to burn off the extra energy, and I wanted to do something that would keep me from being arrested.” He chuckled. “Not that it came out of my brain that elegantly. Like I said, I was angry. My money was running out, and I didn’t want to keep taking money from my Mum and Dad. Worked as a dishwasher in a restaurant for a while. I was getting into a lot of fights. ” He hummed. “One night, a friend in the same restaurant told me that these Watson’s Warriors were helping people, and they offered small time work, if you just needed to get on your feet. I knew who they were because of the news, so I went to Baker Street. The rest is history.”

“Do you have a job now?” Shawn asked, tentatively. Nicholas looked at him sideways. Shawn must be in Uni now, and worried about getting a job when he came out.

“A job? Yeah, I work in an office fixing computers.” Nicholas said. “But I’m not going to stop doing this. It settles into your bones.”

Shawn smiled at that. “We’re nearing Mornington Crescent again.” He pointed out.

“So we are.” Said Nicholas. “Oi, Hank? Huddle up.”

They were going to take a different route back to King’s Cross this time around, but procedure said that they all had to stop and review the plan. Jacob had them all walk into the Crescent proper, so that they had more light to discuss things by, and then they huddled over the map that Jacob had on him.

Stopping just there proved not to be a good idea. When they emerged from Camdale Street and stood on the street corner they attracted some attention from passersby. There was a nightclub on the opposite corner just diagonally from where they were standing. Anyone patrolling this route knew that the doors of the club opened sometime around seven pm, which had been just over an hour and a half ago.

Even this early in the night, there were already some people who’d had too much to drink, or had caused some trouble at the very least. Four men had just been very clearly thrown out of the nightclub. Hank watched  them out of the corner of his eye, half listening to Jacob, Nicholas, Almas and Shawn discussing the planned route and who should take their turn on point next, as Jacob was still instructing Almas on what he’d missed.

The men were very clearly sore about being thrown out. They were shouting and swearing. Hank turned back into the huddle. “I think we’re going to have trouble in a minute.”

“The lads?” Jacob said quietly. “Yeah, I see them. They look like they’re spoiling for a fight. Hopefully they won’t pick us. Not that I want them to pick somebody else, but still. Everyone keep your eyes on the map here, and hopefully they’ll pass us by.”

It seemed to work. There were railings on both corners of the road, fairly high ones that should have been a deterrent, because anyone crossing the street would have to get around them.

Nicholas, Shawn and Almas went back to perusing the map in Jacob’s hands, while Hank and Jacob continued to watch the four men out of the corner of their eyes. The men took a route opposite the way the patrol was headed, which was a good sign, until one of the four men took a look at them through the railing and sniggered something to one of his mates.

Hank watched, his stomach sinking into his boots. “Jacob.” He said in warning.

“Yeah. I see it.” Jacob said, stuffing the map into one of his pockets. “Keep Shawn behind us, he’s only had a bit of training. Almas, guard Nicholas. Nicholas -”

Nicholas already had his phone out and the app booting up on his tiny screen. “On it.” As fast as he could, he typed. Attk on Ptrl Grp 7 Camdale St Mornington Cres, he typed into the app, and just as the four somewhat drunken men wandered up, wearing sneering expressions on their faces, he pressed the ‘big red button’. He slipped the phone back into his pocket, watching the four men as Jacob took point. It would take some time for the next patrol to get there.

“Evening lads.” Jacob said cheerfully, trying to be as disarming as possible. “Can we help you with anything?”

The beefiest of the four men looked Jacob up and down. The difference between them was startling. Jacob was a man in his early fifties, short, but not hobbled down by fat. The other man was in his twenties or thirties, about Almas’ age, and bulked up. “I’ve seen blokes like you around before,” Beefy sneered. “What are you, some sort of strange cult now?”

“Nah.” Another one of the blokes said, slurring. “I told you, it’s those Warrior people.”

“I knew that,” Beefy said, rolling his eyes before settling them again on Jacob’s neck, where Jacob’s bright scarf sat. “You’re those Sherlock Holmes nutters. Haven’t you heard? The man’s not dead.”

Jacob shrugged. “Yeah. We know.”

“Then why are you still around?” Beefy leaned close down to Jacob, liquor-soaked breath nearly bowling the other man over. “Are you all just sitting around watching him solve things the sodding genius set up himself? Didn’t you hear? The man’s a fake.”

Jacob didn’t blink, and more importantly, he didn’t take the bait. “Maybe I’m not the one who should go home,” he said flatly, no inflection at all present in his tone. “You’re a bit drunk, mate.”

There were chuckles behind Beefy. One of them was sizing up Almas.

“S’ the point, innit?” Beefy said. “What else is a bloke supposed to do at night? Get drunk, find some girls. What, you think we should spend our nights mooning around with a bunch of nutters doing ‘good deeds’?” He laughed, and then poked Jacob in the chest. “I don’t think so.”

Jacob gently moved Beefy’s finger off of his chest, and non-threateningly put his own hands down by his pockets. Behind him, Hank was beginning to sweat. He knew exactly what direction this was going in. “Then why don’t you leave us alone, we’ll go enjoy our night the way that we want to, and you can enjoy the night in your own way.” Hank suggested.

One of Beefy’s pals snorted. “I dunno, I think we could use a good fight about now. For revenge.”

“Revenge?” Jacob said, half interested, despite himself. “I don’t recall running into you lot before.”

“No.” The fourth of Beefy’s cohort said. “But you yellow-scarved bastards put our mate Gavin in in the slammer.”

“Yeah?” Jacob unfortunately took the bait this time. Nicholas could see Almas shift his weight in front of him. Shawn was as tense as wire behind him. Hank planted his feet and took his hands out of his pocket. “And when was that?”

“Last year.” The fourth said. “He wasn’t doing anything.” Hank’s hands curled into fists.

“Last year?” Jacob replied casually. “That wouldn’t have been in August, would it? When a whole bunch of blokes went down to Baker Street and threw molotov cocktails and bricks through people’s windows? Even tried to put a bunch of us “yellow scarved bastards” in the hospital?”

The fourth smirked. “Maybe.”

Jacob smirked back. “Well then, maybe your mate Gavin got put behind bars for a really good reason.”

Beefy snarled, his fist shooting out at Jacob, who managed to block it with a painful slam to his forearm. The second after that, he’d been pulled back by Almas. Almas took Jacob’s place in front of Beefy and started fighting with more skill than any of the other Warriors had anticipated that he had. Martial arts indeed.

Hank squared off with the fourth member of the group, Jacob with the one who’d spotted them initially, while Nicholas and Shawn tried to take the fourth member - with little to no skill at all, in Shawn’s case. Nicholas was a brawler, always had been, and it showed.

That didn’t mean that they were winning. At some point though, Shawn noticed from a hard slam against the wall that there were other yellow and black scarved people running towards them, and some black clad people from the nightclub before them.

Ten minutes later, Almas, Nicholas and Shawn were seated against the stone wall by the nightclub on the opposite side of the street, some of the night club’s bouncers guarding them - one handing out shots of whisky. Two of their attackers were being loaded into separate ambulances. Beefy was one of them, looking worse off than Almas, who was grinning widely from the adrenaline, even though he was bleeding at the mouth, had a black eye, and was sitting in a way that suggested that the paramedics would be seeing to his ribs shortly. Jacob had been loaded off into another ambulance by several Warriors from another patrol, who’d arrived not four minutes after the brawl had begun. Jacob had been swearing that he was “fine thank youvery much”, even as he’d been cradling a broken arm, and clearly needed stitching for his cheek. Hank was busy giving a statement to the police, who’d taken the other two men off to the Yard for processing. Hank was swaying on his feet though, his scarf wrapped around his head, and the paramedics were eying him up, waiting to pounce.

“That,” said Shawn, with the sound of someone who’d just spent the last few minutes in utter terror and adrenaline, only to have found some sort of rush from it. “Was wicked.” His own black eye was slowly swelling so that he couldn’t see out of it. Someone had given him ice for it.

Almas chuckled around his shot glass, holding a white cloth to his mouth in the other hand. “Oh dear. I think someone’s hooked on patrol duty.” He said dryly.

Nicholas winced as he took the ice off of his bloody knuckles. “Oh good.” He threw the less affected arm around Shawn. “Welcome to Euston Patrol Seven, we’re not a pretty sight, but we’re solid as hell.”

Shawn grinned at him. “Do you have badges, or something?”

Almas moaned. “Oh dear goodness no. Not this again. Can someone please knock me out? I’ll even pay!” He called out to the nearest club bouncer. “Hey, can I get more whisky?”

Nicholas laughed at Almas before turning to a bemused Shawn. “Hank tried to get us to do that about a year ago. It was a total nightmare…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Ironmonger’s Hall is a real hall in London, with a history that dates to the 1300’s. Look it up! It’s gorgeous.  
> ** Euston Road is located directly by King’s Cross station, and important place in the Harry Potter books, and doubly important for the Magical Watson’s Warriors, as it is a connection between the Wizarding World and Muggle World. In my head, there are also quite a few Wizarding shops there as well, cleverly disguised. Technically, all shops should be located in Diagon Alley, but I’m guessing that after a few centuries, there was less and less space to put shops in Diagon, as it is the main shopping drag. Knockturn Alley is another story entirely.  
> ***Near Diagon Alley. This group only uses Wizarding Warriors, with some exceptions.


	11. The Past and the Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill Weasley accepts a task, Mycroft Holmes reflects on an obsession - and what’s that in the Trafalgar Square fountain?
> 
> Also, Sherlock has gone down the rabbit hole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all, much news:
> 
> Firstly, I meant to get this done before Laughing_Phoenix and I went to Anime Boston this year, but -oops? We attended as genderbent Phillipa Coulson of S.H.I.E.L.D and Captain Stephanie Rogers, respectively. A good time was had by all, except that I became Cap With a Cold partway through. The supersoldier serum was temporarily bested, clearly.
> 
> Secondly, if you are one of our Warriors, please message us ASAP, as we are about to roll out the second part of The Master of London series. If you are not one of our Warriors but would like to be, message us please. If you have no clue what this is about, disregard this message entirely. Seriously. It’s invisible.
> 
> Thirdly, there is now a tumblr for this fic! Huzzah! The link is: (http://www.tumblr.com/blog/watsonswarriorsat221b). And yes, Phoenix, I remembered the password this time. Eventually. Questions to the ask box will be “answered” by a “member of the Warriors”, but Phoenix and I will be happy to answer questions as well, just tag them accordingly.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes leaned back in his antique office chair and regarded the ginger wizard in front of him, turning the spy’s report over in his mind.

William Weasley - who preferred to go by Bill - had been an exceptional resource during the Second Wizarding War. Not only had he spied for the Order of the Phoenix in some capacity, but he’d also consented to spying for Mycroft’s division, giving Mycroft another insight - Bill was not the only wizard Mycroft had ever recruited - into a world at it’s breaking point, one that Mycroft could not enter himself. Since the war’s end, Bill had only sent in reports as he deemed them necessary, and those almost always came on parchment. Mycroft could, however, see why the wizard had thought it necessary to give this report in person.

“And they have absolutely no idea which wizard might be the culprit?” Mycroft asked.

Bill shook his head, long locks slipping in front of his eyes. “No. Not yet. I suspect that they are going to be looking at us, the curse breakers who have access to Griznocz, first. It’s a reasonable assumption that one of us might have had something to do with it. We are the only Wizards allowed into the city.” He paused, unsure. “But...It’s a privilege to be allowed into Griznocz. Even among curse breakers who aren't Gringotts employees, it’s an acknowledged accomplishment. Just having a mention of that on your resume means that you can go anywhere on the planet, and goblins will be happy to employ you. And you get a much higher salary. The challenges you are given are just that much more interesting too, more complex, you get the choice assignments. Honestly, I don’t know why a cursebreaker would give up that advantage.”

“Oh, I agree.” Mycroft said. “The disadvantages of such an action do not outweigh the benefits - whatever those might be. Aside from which,” Mycroft added. “Whomever killed these goblins went after those particular individuals. All financiers in control of large sums of money, with clan futures at stake. Tell me, how often do the clans feud?”

Bill took a moment to reply. “Honestly, it’s hard to tell. There are minor disputes, over things even as simple as people from different clans cutting in front of another in a cafe line. Those disputes of course, don’t last very long and are often resolved within the hour. Some disputes, such as delays in money transfers, or denial of transfers of deeds, even mining contracts, can last months to years. Major clan disputes - the targeted death of a large number of another clan’s members - haven’t happened for...at least a century? As far as I know? There hasn’t been anything like that recently because of the War. During the war the whole Goblin nation came together, they voted to keep the bank running but to keep their heads down, to not antagonize the Death Eaters and keep the Goblin nation as safe as possible. There were individuals who did things on their own - Griphook for example - but the majority of goblins? They were like us, they wanted their families safe. That solidarity has been kept up really. Relations are getting friendlier between some of the clans that haven’t been civil in centuries.”

Mycroft hummed. “It would not be, then, a case of a wizard trying to turn the clans on one another. Anyone with similar knowledge and access to the city, like yourself, would be able to read the change. Not, of course, that the killer could not decide to attempt it anyway. ” He tapped a finger on the table. “Bill.” He said. “Would you be adverse to continuing to monitor the situation? Coming here for weekly reports?”

“No,” said Bill. “I can do that. Easily.”

The younger man was led out some minutes later, leaving Mycroft to his own thoughts once again. He intended to go back to reading reports, but he became distracted and put them aside. Instead, Bill Weasley’s report kept running through his mind. Mainly, because of the fact that it had to do with the goblins.

He had always admired the goblins, since his introduction to the Wizarding World at large.

Goblins valued intelligence, knowledge, order, and a political cunning that Mycroft rarely, if ever, encountered in his own species. There was something to be said for Goblin social dynamics as well - they did not waste time. Every moment, every conversation was straight and to the point. There was no frippery, no small talk unless it was geared towards gaining a subtle advantage. And they were positively ruthless too. The scant conversations that Mycroft had ever held with a goblin had been like breathing a mental breath of fresh air.

Goblin financial prowess was better than any human’s, but then the Goblins had been banking longer than humanity combined. If one looked closely enough at the finances of any country on the globe, eventually a person with the correct knowledge would be able to find evidence of the goblin’s dalliances in financial markets, and even their propping up of non-magical economies, going back centuries. Much of the world - Magical and Muggle - relied on the Goblin economy, whether they knew it or not.

And now someone was threatening that balance, however indirectly. Threatening the goblin nation as a whole.

Although the murdered bankers were not directly involved in the global affairs of Gringotts, they were heavily involved in their clans own finances. It would send ripples through Goblin society. How many treaties and financial secrets had these Goblin men been hiding? And from whom?

Bill Weasley had said that the goblin - Supervisor Gurzak - had had no knowledge of why these individuals were killed. Perhaps they had been killed for something that only a select few knew of? And had told no one else?

The missing files told of a deeper story. Clan bankers did not normally collaborate unless under political duress, but perhaps these had? And if they had, for what purpose? Mycroft’s fingers twitched with the sudden need to get to the bottom of all of this information. Most especially, to get ahold of each goblin clan’s financial records.

In lieu of sending out a missive demanding bank statements - which would never be given, and would likely prompt a visit from the Ministry of Magic’s Obliviators - Mycroft restrained himself. As a Muggle he would never be permitted to see the inside of the bank, let alone handle clan bank statements, and while he admired Goblins, he’d never had good relations with them. Mycroft ran an errant finger back and forth along the side of his jaw. Goblins might occasionally have respect for wizards, he thought distractedly, but the only human they would only ever truly trust would be the Master of London.

Mycroft’s hand jerked away from his face, and the shadow leader of the British Government allowed himself a moment to forget work entirely, his hands clenching on the arms of his chair. The Master of London. Yes. They’d trust him, they might even know how to find him. The man that Mycroft was sometimes convinced was as substantial as smoke.

The enigma that Mycroft had been searching for for upwards of fifteen years.

The Master of London was a man, a wizard. Mycroft knew that for certain. They’d met a few times during the Second Wizarding War. But that was where his knowledge ended. Mycroft did not know how old the other man was, or what he looked like - his height, his weight, his voice, were all a mystery to him.

It had been a condition of the agreement between the Master of London and the British Government - Mycroft, then a junior functionary, could meet the Master of London, but only if his mind was wiped of all traces of the Master’s identity afterwards. At the time, the concession had been galling, but necessary.

They’d first met not long after the murder of Mycroft’s predecessor. The British government’s former representative to the Wizarding World, a non-magical, had tried to pass as a wizard to more closely observe the Wizarding World. But he’d apparently stuck out like a sore thumb, eventually drawing the gaze of Death Eaters (not that the British government had known the identity of the perpetrators at the time) who had wanted to know what a Muggle had been doing lurking near a known entrance to the Wizarding World.

When his body had turned up in central London Mycroft had been identified as a young, intelligent man with a clear head for navigating risks.  He had been pulled in to replace him, and to continue the work that his predecessor had died doing.

Mycroft’s predecessor had been on a mission to learn more about the current dealings of the Wizarding World. The Ministry of Magic had dropped any pretense of real communication with the Prime Minister's office years decades before Mycroft had been born (with the rare and notable exception, such as the escape of Sirius Black), leaving the Muggle government absolutely blind as to the political, economical, and social status of the Wizarding World in the United Kingdom at large. And no idea of how to properly establish contact. Mycroft had taken one look at the mission and had considered it a write-off. The government was demanding that he take a direct approach, as a government representative, and ask to be shown to the Ministry of Magic.

Mycroft had always prefered the subtle approach.

Thus, instead of using his predecessor’s less than well thought out tactic, Mycroft had first sought out Squibs, Muggleborns, anyone who had left the British Wizarding World anywhere in the last ten years, and began to ask questions. At first, he had been appalled by what he’d found. Widespread bigotry on the basis of ‘blood status’, poverty, inadequate medical care for a subset of the population, and corruption as deep and persistent as that in the former Soviet Union. Then Mycroft ha’d learned of the treatment of sentient magical creatures. Of the crimes of purebloods. Of the lack of freedom of the press or laws to protect against libel. Of the paucity of fair trials.

Part of Mycroft’s mind had recoiled at this, at how rotten a society in the center of modern Britain had become. Then he remembered British history was rife with that sort of thing, and it was mildly hypocritical to think that such things couldn’t happen in England. He regarded the wizarding world from arm’s length, not wishing to be drawn in by it’s petrifying inadequacies.

Under normal circumstances, Mycroft would have simply reported back to his superiors with what he had found, and let the matter rest. He would have recommended that an eye should be kept on the wizarding world, but no contact be made unless strictly necessary.

Only that was exactly when the attacks began. Small ones, and then larger ones. The sudden rise in number of Muggles who were being killed by magic, by followers of Voldemort, wizard or not. The Muggle government was  forced to call it a rash of “gas attacks” all over the British Isles, though gas could not torture, maim, or chase families into the night. Voldemort’s forces were attacking those they considered ‘undesirable’, and anyone with a voice who could stand in their way. The Squibs that Mycroft had known were suddenly in hiding. Muggleborns were running for the hills, some hiding, as they were being - quite literally in some cases - hunted down for the kill. Mycroft’s network was unraveling.

There was little the Muggle government could do about it. Because of the Statute of Secrecy, even Wizards in fear of their lives would not come to the Muggle government for aid. Either because they were scared to do so, or because they believed that without magic, there was no way for Muggles to help. The halls of Westminster had practically trembled in fear. They had no incoming information, and no way of dealing with the threat.

Mycroft himself was suddenly thrust into the spotlight, thanks to his knowledge of the Wizarding World, of Death Eaters and Magical society. Mycroft had had little time to amass what knowledge he possessed before the depth of the War had begun. Now that attacks were on the rise, what he’d really needed was a direct line of information from the Wizarding World into his ear, not the mountain of reports that were now being suddenly, dropped onto his desk by the hundreds - each detailing suspicious, abnormal things happening all over the British Isles -  mysterious deaths, illnesses, and destruction.

With permission he was allowed to start gathering his own, personal spy network. A real spy network, not his informational network from before. Wheedling their way into and out of the Wizarding World, Mycroft’s new flock of spies brought back dire pictures of what was occurring. It took time, too much time for a situation that was rapidly evolving. The rebirth of Lord Voldemort, a mass escape of Death Eaters, the death of Albus Dumbledore, the overthrow of the Ministry of Magic, and the new laws that functioned ostensibly as thinly disguised oppression, more thinly describing human (and not so human) rights abuses. Mycroft could keep up, but barely. When one event reached his ears, another had already cropped up, leaving Mycroft’s - and the British Government’s - options for action to be quite limited.

The picture was chilling, but still Mycroft needed more. He had stewed, frustrated, at the lack of having wizards on the ground who would be able to help the Muggle government, to give detailed information that would let Muggles fight back. To, at the very least keep the fighting to the magical side of things.

He’d heard the talk of organized opposition to Lord Voldemort, which was why Mycroft had fought to recruit a member of the Order of the Phoenix. But it had never been Bill Weasley who had given Mycroft his best, and most detailed information about the threat that the world had been facing. No, that had been the Master of London himself.

One afternoon, an owl - native to Britain, non-descript - had arrived at the window of Mycroft’s office in Whitechapel. The scroll attached to the leg of the owl had been written on parchment that had clearly been ripped from something else. It was from a man (the writing indicated a man, Mycroft had not been in any mood to study to the style of the note for more clues at the time) who called himself the Master of London, who claimed to have created a second opposition force in the war. He was caring for - and successfully hiding - hundreds of Muggleborns, Squibs, and opposition sympathizers from Lord Voldemort’s puppet government. In the center of London no less. He knew that Mycroft was investigating the Wizarding World. And he was writing to Mycroft for help.

This refugee force was in need of food, medicine, and assistance getting people to safety. Should Mycroft be agreeable to meeting the Master of London, chances were that the two parties could come together to make some sort of arrangement. Including providing information on the Wizarding World in exchange for aid.

How could Mycroft say no? He’d taken a sheet of paper, knowing that this proposed meeting could very likely be a trap - he did remember what had happened to his predecessor - and said that he was welcome to discussing an arrangement. He asked whom he’d be meeting, and where. The minute the owl had flown away, Mycroft had set emergency plans into motion. First, he updated his will. Next, he’d asked for the previous month’s copies of the Daily Prophet (purchased from a Half-Blood wizard who needed the money at the Leaky Cauldron by a spy), and any information anyone had about this “Master of London”.

The results were astounding. The man was clearly the leader of a large group - much larger than the Order of the Phoenix - and they were not simply refugees. They were much more organized. The Master of London was listed by the (clearly biased) Daily Prophet as a menace to society, a harborer of malcontents and violent people. Mycroft could have compiled a list of raids and counter raids, skirmishes and supply looting that had been done by the Master of London’s followers - known as Warriors (he let one of his underlings do it.) It was an extensive list.

It was even, somewhat, like a modern Robin Hood tale. Only more terrifying.

What the papers and Mycroft’s spies said about the Master himself, did not fill even one sheet of paper. Those points were that the Master of London accepted everyone, men, women, and - horrifyingly - children into his ranks, offering protection to their families in exchange for assisting with the War effort. Exactly how he could guarantee protection was unclear. There was some rumor that this Master was the heir of one of Hogwarts’ founders - similar to Lord Voldemort himself - and that Lord Voldemort had attempted to recruit the Master multiple times only to be declined, sometimes forcefully. There was an even more disquieting rumor - that the Master had powers beyond that of a normal wizard. Powers that were tied to the city of London itself.

The original owl came back within a few hours with a reply. The Master would be happy to meet,   with a date and time listed and a location that would be indistinct enough for both parties that it would not be suspicious.  Included was the request that Mycroft, both for his own sake and for the Master’s own safety be Obliviated at the end of the meeting. Mycroft would remember what they had discussed, but nothing about the Master himself. Mycroft should also come alone.

Mycroft, not without some trepidation, agreed.

Mycroft could, to this day, remember his meeting with the Master of London with crystal clarity, if not the man himself. They met at in a brightly lit pub in Muggle London, well patronized during the post-work day rush. The Master had guards with him - if Mycroft ever had to identify them again, he could.

Mycroft could remember what they’d spoken about at that meeting, and at every meeting he’d had with the Master of London afterwards. He even still had the copy of the Daily Prophet that had been sent to him the day after the War had been won, and the Christmas gift he’d received from the Master of London that year. Every detail, every note that they’d sent each other was archived in a special vault in Mycroft’s home, along with everything else he could find on the man and on the organization he had led.

Mycroft relaxed his grip on the chair. He had several reasons for wanting to speak to the Master of London. To begin with, he was not actually sure that the man had survived the war, and if he had, if he had survived unscathed. After the triumphant Daily Prophet, his direct communication with the Master of London had stopped. He still got information from at least one of the Master’s lieutenants, as per their agreement during the war, but there was nothing about, or from, the man himself.

The Master of London had seemingly dropped off the face of the Earth.

While Mycroft had trained himself to keep emotions at bay, classifying them as merely ‘sentiment’, he would be hard pressed to deny, if just to himself, that he had liked the Master of London. While he could not effectively remember the man, he could remember his own emotions, and much of those had been positive. More cerebrally, the Master had done a herculean job during the War, effectively so, and had been less hardened by the experience than Mycroft would have assumed of a man in his position. As far as Mycroft could recall, the other man had been pleasant to talk to as well. Someone else who understood the challenges of organizing a large subset of the general populace and all that came with it. He would have liked to continue their association in peacetime.

The second reason he wanted to find the man was that Mycroft wanted to know further details of the man’s specific powers. He’d only had cause to see them once, from afar, after their meeting had been ambushed. Mycroft was not beyond putting his recollection of the event down to too much liquor. He chose not to remember it, unless he needed to, and put it deep within his mind palace most of the time - behind a locked door.

The third reason was much similar to Mycroft reason for accepting the original meeting. This man had been the commander of a vast network that Moriarty could have only dreamed of, all incredibly loyal to him. His Warriors were fighting fit, and had seen action. The Wizarding World had no standing army. What had the Master of London done with his people after the Second Wizarding War? Had he sought a place of power, or had he relinquished all power? Mycroft was still unsure of the Master’s actual age at the time of their first meeting. Had he simply died, leaving a successor who had no desire to talk to Mycroft at all?

With a sigh, the shadow head of the British government returned to his reports, first buzzing Anthea to request a pot of tea. His musings on the Master of London would have to wait, again.

* * *

Around ten in the evening, a murder had been called in to New Scotland Yard. It was referred to Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade’s unit, because, well - his unit was now associated with the tricky murders, or at the very least the unusual ones.

This one, Greg mused, looking dispassionately down at the body floating in the Trafalgar Square, was definitely one of the weirder ones. A couple of tourists had found the man. They’d thought he was some sort of drunk bather first, until they’d gotten closer and seen that the water of the fountain had been stained dark, spreading outwards, creating a nebulous disturbance in the otherwise clear water - which, in the yellow lamplight of the surrounding area seemed to make the fountain ominously deep. It was a bit creepy, if Greg wanted to be honest with himself.

At first glance, the man looked as if he was some sort of a cultist. The man’s clothes were long, like robes - and might have been a very pale, almost ice blue at some point. They were cinched around his arms, and probably would have gone almost all the way down to his feet when he was alive. Now they floated around him. Whatever make his boots were, they dragged his feet down to the bottom of the fountain, so that he was arched upwards, staring open eyed and open mouthed at the sky, his arms stretched out beside him. His hair, a light color, extremely pale, fanned around his head like a perverse halo - stained dark where it mixed with the bloody water. A thin wooden stick carved out to look like some sort of wand was floating, broken in half, near the man’s right hand, but not drifting with the currents in the fountain as it should have been, which was a bit odd. Forensics would have to look at it more closely, but the snap in the two halves looked too clean to be an accident. That, and the cut throat. That was no accident either. The way that the man’s robe like clothing had been pulled away from his chest, which been repeatedly slashed open, hadn’t been an accident either. He’d been mutilated so much so that Greg wasn’t sure they’d ever get all the bits of him out of the fountain, like loose bits of mincemeat that got stuck everywhere.

Greg felt rather than saw Donovan appear at his own right shoulder. She was also staring down at the body. “What do you think?” He asked her.

“I think the media is going to be all over this.” Sally said.

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Greg snarked back. “What about the body?”

Sally was silent for a moment. “I think it’s weird.” She said, deliberately giving him her personal, biased answer first, and then gave her analytical answer. “And I think someone wanted this to be seen. Public fountain and all that. He wasn’t just dumped either. Positioned face up. Eyes open.”

“Yeah.” Greg huffed. “No sign of a note? Some sort of message?”

“You’d really think we’d be that lucky?” Sally smirked.

“Nah.” Greg said. He looked at her briefly. “Besides, I think the poor sod is the message. Whatever that is.”

They paused for a moment, the sound of the water still lapping against the sides of the fountain, which had now been turned off.

“These wounds look like our dock worker’s.” Sally said.

“At a guess?” Greg said. “Yes they do. Forensics will let us know for sure though.”

“How do you think they’re connected?” Sally asked. “The dress-up bloke and our dock worker?”

Greg shook his head. “No idea.”  

They heard the sound of what were most likely news vans pulling up, the shouts of reporters approaching the police cordon, the flashes and lights from cameras beginning to sound into the relative darkness of the Square. They turned to look at them, checking the size of the media crowd before looking back at the man in the fountain.

“You’re going to call him in on this, aren't you?”

Greg took his phone out of his pocket and gave a world weary sigh. “Yeah.” He said. “Tell the coroner to bag the body. And I want Molly on this too. She did the work on the dockworker. No one’s allowed near the fountain for a few days at the least.”

Sally nodded. “Sir.” She turned away and strode into the night, towards the police cordon and the newly arrived coroner’s van, midst the reporters craning for a better look.

“Even if I don’t call him, Sherlock will insist on seeing this.” Greg muttered, before he dialed and raised the phone to his ear.

* * *

Sherlock’s cell phone rang somewhere in the depths of his Belstaff. However, he was in no position to notice. Stolen Warrior’s scarf wrapped securely about his neck, Sherlock was running at breakneck speed down the alleyways of London following a Warrior named Adam Brayden. To where, he had no idea.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	12. Leadenhall Market

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock goes digging - and gets more than he bargained for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not dead! Just really busy. Also, sorry if I hadn’t replied to comments or seen kudos recently. My email flubbed and started putting Ao3 notifications in the junk mail folder!
> 
> I’m also in the process of recording (with a bunch of actors) a radio drama that I wrote - first two episodes being recorded this weekend! It’s not fandom related, but it will be going online somewhere once all of the episodes are clean enough. 
> 
> I’m a little conflicted about this chapter. Took me a long time to get Sherlock’s voice right for this one, and I’m not sure I did it all that well. He’s not my strongest character to write. But at least you get to see more of the Warriors, and you get a tiny, big, revelation. 
> 
> All the best, 
> 
> teacup_of_doom

 

* * *

 Sherlock’s purloined yellow and black scarf sat heavily on his shoulders, a physical weight he had not quite prepared for. Somehow, in the back of his mind, John was glaring at him in disapproval. The scarf hadn’t been stolen, not exactly. Two twenty one Baker Street seemed to attract spare scarves (and their owners), like a singularity drew light.

Even so, Sherlock was beginning to realize why so many of the scarves were left strewn about. They might be warm (and therefore perfect for winter), but they were long, and cumbersome. Perhaps the Warriors had someone making them lighter, more seasonal scarves? Never the less, Sherlock felt that he looked ridiculous in the scarf (yellow and black were clearly not his colors), but if wearing one of the things furthered his ability to solve the mystery of John Watson, so be it.

The best way Sherlock had thought of to crack the mystery of John Watson was to go and seek out those who knew John best - other than Sherlock himself, of course. Mike Stamford was out as a line of inquiry: John’s old friend had only met John when they’d both enrolled in University, and not within the time frame that interested Sherlock - before University, before John had joined the armed services.

It was a guess, but it was quite possible that there were Warriors who knew John, had known John, long before John turned eighteen. It was a very good guess, as Sherlock believed the connection between the colors of the Hufflepuff pin and the scarves was not a coincidence, which meant that the ranks of the Warriors were the best place for Sherlock to look for what, long ago, would have been John’s teenage contemporaries.

Therefore, Sherlock’s plan was to spend time amongst the Warriors until he could find the right person, or persons, and then get as much information out of them as possible. Which meant that he needed the scarf. Even though it clashed terribly with his Belstaff.

First, he had to integrate himself with the Warriors themselves. It wouldn’t be that difficult. He was already fairly known to them - being John’s friend, and one of the reasons that the Warriors had formed*. At least, it shouldn’t be all that difficult to get Mrs. Hudson to get him a space on the volunteer roster.

Or so Sherlock thought.

Mrs. Hudson’s flat was just as Sherlock had hoped to find it. Inside the flat there were several Warriors still lingering. It was between shift assignments at this time of day, so those who didn’t have assignments but didn’t want to go home kept an eye on Mrs. Hudson’s home for her. Mrs. Hudson’s apartment had been shifted about a bit to accommodate a larger number of people, but there were still areas in which a bit of solitude could be found. The kitchen was one of those places, between shifts at least. When Sherlock entered, there was a Warrior seated at the kitchen table, a cup of steaming herbal tea in his hands. The Warrior didn’t look up at Sherlock, too intent on the sheaf of papers spread before him. He was less scruffy than some of the other Warriors Sherlock had seen, though he was trying to aim to blend in. He wore gloves with the fingers cut off, but the gloves themselves were of a high quality, his jacket was too, but not of a make that Sherlock could identify. The Warrior’s black hair was worn longish - longer than most men wore it - his bangs slightly in his eyes as he read. His scarf, the yellow and black snake around his neck, seemed to be of a better quality than the regular Warrior’s scarves as well - and looked older.

It was the age of the scarf - the faded colors of the yarn, the loss of the majority of it’s tassels, the cleverly hidden repeated darning of worn spots and damage - that prompted Sherlock not to dismiss this man. The scarf was older than most of the scarves that the Warriors left about 221b. Initial bias upon taking in this man’s clothes would have taken Sherlock to assume that this man was a man with money who needed something to do. The scarf contradicted this bias neatly.=

Eyeing the other man, Sherlock stepped further into the kitchen, towards the stove, noticing that a pot of tea had already been put aside on the counter. “Is there any more tea left?” Sherlock inquired.

The Warrior looked up. He was about John’s age, but it was hard to tell how much older or younger, with the slight masking subtle gracing his chin. The Warrior gave a hint of a smile. “Only if you like [ginger ginseng](http://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.tealuxe.com%2Fcomponent%2Fpage%2Cshop.product_details%2Fflypage%2Ctealuxe-flypage.tpl%2Fproduct_id%2C541%2Fcategory_id%2C6%2Foption%2Ccom_virtuemart%2FItemid%2C1%2F&sa=D&sntz=1&usg=AFQjCNG-afwfU0WcQehdDcLcB-f_4euADg).”

Sherlock paused and then huffed. It couldn’t be that bad. He got a blue mug from one of the cupboards and poured himself some. As he did so there was a rustle of paper behind him, and by the time Sherlock had finished, the papers that had covered the table had curiously disappeared.

The Warrior was looking at him with an expression of mild interest and some amusement over the top of his own blue mug. As if finding Sherlock only a touch interesting, expecting Sherlock to mention the papers.

Sherlock knew better than to do so. Instead, he crossed over to the Warrior and the table. “Do you mind?” He asked, waving a hand at the seat across from the Warrior.

The Warrior shook his head. “No, please, sit.” His accent was London, possibly high society, but with an inflection that cast doubt upon that. Sherlock couldn’t pinpoint it.

Sherlock sat, and was unsure what to say, taking a sip of the tea to stall for time. It hit his tongue, and he felt his eyebrows lift in surprise. The tea was sweet, extremely so, without added sugar. There was also a slight bite to it, from the ginger. Not altogether unpleasing at all.

The Warrior across from him was smirking. Eyes twinkling, he said “most people don’t like that blend. I’m always looking at reactions. The Leadenhall Warriors have issued me my own teapot, because I used to foist it on them regularly.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “They were not receptive, I take it.” He said dryly.

“I think it was more because ginger ginseng doesn’t taste very good if you spike it with whiskey.” The Warrior said, and then grinning, “it may have been why I was foisting it on them to begin with.”

Sherlock did smile at that. He looked at the Warrior carefully, and then extended a hand. “Sherlock Holmes.” He said.

The Warrior took his hand. “I know. Hard not to, if you’re a Warrior. Adam Brayden.”

“Of the Leadenhall Market Warriors?” Sherlock asked, releasing the other man’s hand.

Adam nodded. “A disreputable lot, but I like it there anyway.”

“But you’ve come here-” Sherlock began.

“For a bit of peace and quiet.” Adam said. “Sometimes, I need it.”

Sherlock understood, and said so. The Leadenhall Market group was a more secretive part of the Warriors, as he understood it, than the rest of the organization, though not, as he understood, as secretive as the lot that was rumored to patrol near Shoreditch High Street. He did not know what they did, or who ran them - John did, presumably, as every time someone brought up the issue, John would not broker ill will against them - but if Sherlock was able to get more data on them as well, it would not hurt his investigation.

“I’ve never seen you wear one of those, Mr. Holmes.” Adam said, nodding towards Sherlock’s purloined scarf. The question in Adam’s tone was unmistakable.

Sherlock had already prepared an answer for this, if he was asked. “John, quite some time ago... implied...that I should...make an attempt to better regard the Warriors. He may have been cross with me at the time. Possibly yelling.”

Adam practically grinned, but hid it behind his mug. Clearly, someone else who had been at the mercy of John’s ire, or Adam was amused by John yelling at Sherlock for some reason. Either way, the reaction was interesting.

“Others have suggested that I ingratiate myself with the Warriors because I owe you for keeping John safe and well while I was...away.” Sherlock finished.

Adam nodded, taking Sherlock’s statement at face value. “That, and we’re here all the time. You come down to talk to the homeless network, but rarely anyone else. No offense, but most people are of the opinion that you think you’re too good to mingle with us.”

Sherlock blinked. It was true that he sometimes thought so. His mind worked better (faster) and more intelligently than others. (John was a strange exception to every rule Sherlock had ever had. John was John. For some reason it was that simple.) And while he had always been ridiculed for his tendency to ignore and look down on others, he had never considered that the Warriors would see him in such a way that he had, in effect, presumably self-scuttled future interaction. He did not dislike the Warriors. He did not look down on them.

“I have never believed so.” Sherlock said matter of factly.

Adam gave him a long look, scrutinizing Sherlock for something. What, Sherlock did not know. “How do you plan to get to know the Warriors better, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock was not sure if he had passed whatever test Adam had placed upon him, but replied. “I was hoping Mrs. Hudson would put me on the volunteer rolls.”

Adam shook his head. “Mrs. Hudson stepped out about an hour ago. Visiting friends, apparently. You’ll likely have to wait until she comes back.”

Sherlock was mildly disappointed. “You don’t have any sway over the rolls?” He’d have to go looking for other Warriors, even if this one was interesting.

Adam’s mouth twitched. “Dear Merlin, no. I try to stay as far from that mess as possible.”

_Merlin?_ Sherlock thought. “Then what do you do for the Warriors?” He let his eyes drift towards the sheaf of papers just sticking out of the messenger bag that he’d just noticed, sitting on the chair next to Adam.

Adam’s eyes twinkled, but his face showed no other sign of anything. “Oh, not much. Like I said, I work for the Leadenhall group, and beyond. I’m more of an information collector. I take what hazards people see on patrol or otherwise, and analyze it. It’s more of a job seeing where to focus our efforts than anything else. People report to me what they see, and I...make it coalesce into a bigger picture, as needed.”

Sherlock’s mind hooked on the words “information collector, hazards,” and “otherwise”. His mind, as he spoke, was too busy unconsciously running through possible connections. There was something in that description that made him think of something else entirely. Something more...Mycroft-y.

“Then you’re one of the leaders of the Leadenhall group, if you’ve got people reporting to you.” Sherlock stated.

Adam shrugged. “Yeah. Sort of.”

_How very interesting_. Sherlock took another drink. “Then I don’t suppose I can ask you if I can volunteer with the Leadenhall group?”

Adam seemed to still, for one brief, but important moment. “You should probably talk to John first.” He said. “He can tell you more about us, and then you can decide what you want to do.”

Sherlock shook his head. “That would defeat the purpose. I want it to be a surprise to John. Since he seems to think me incapable of getting to know the Warriors.”

Adam looked somewhat entertained, but his expression became dubious a moment later. He put down his mug. After a long moment of further scrutinizing Sherlock, Adam seemed to come to some sort of decision. “I can’t speak for the rest of Leadenhall and beyond.” He said slowly. “Some of us can be termed as a bit of an odd lot to some people, even amongst the Warriors, or London standards in general. If I choose to bring you in, there may be a number of people who won’t be that pleased. Enough people, and I’ll have to give you the boot, whether you are a good volunteer or not. If you want in, it’s going to fall on your own shoulders to convince them that you should be allowed to stay there - I won’t be pushing for you. I’m just one vote amongst many. One of those votes may just be John’s.”

Sherlock nodded his acknowledgement of the extremely wary opening that had been given to him. “I understand.” He had the homeless network - alright, the Warriors had them now too - but Sherlock knew what being called “odd” meant.

Adam pushed as far back into his seat as he could. “I don’t think you do. Well, possibly. But we’ll see when we get to that point.” He picked up his mug again. “Though, if I do anything reckless letting you come to Leadenhall and beyond - more reckless, I mean - please tell John not to kill me. Actually, tell John not to kill me anyway. I probably shouldn’t have even offered.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and ignored Adam’s flippant remark, though was curious about the repeated mention of ‘and beyond’. “Does John go to Leadenhall often?”

“No.” Adam said. “Well, when he was younger, yes. Practically lived there half the time. Now? Not very much at all. It was good having him there, and we’d like to draw him back, but he’s not really having it.”

Sherlock cocked his head to the side, thinking, a number of questions pushing at his mind to be asked. He finally settled on a simple “why wouldn’t he go back?”

Adam shrugged, and an expression travelled over his face, too quickly for Sherlock to gauge what the mixture of emotions were. “I think that’s between John and a couple of people at Leadenhall, or beyond really. Personally, I think John should come back. But that’s up to him. I’m not thick enough to try and force his hand.”

Sherlock agreed. “He is stubborn, when he wants to be.”

Adam laughed. “He’s stubborn all the time!”

That, Sherlock could agree with. Before he could respond however, the sound of “[Love Potion No. 9](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7rXhXLsNJL8)” started warbling from somewhere on Adam’s person. The other man cried out in dismay, searched in his pockets, and glared at the phone he eventually unearthed. “Not again!” He looked at Sherlock over the phone and groused. “Leticia keeps stealing my phone and changing it to this song. It’s supposed to be [Magic Man](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qijQC-m2IDs).”

He answered the phone, the sound of Love Potion No. 9 shutting off with the swipe of his thumb. “Yeah, ok. We’ll come. Yes, I did say ‘we’. John’s flatmate is coming with me. I’m fairly certain John only has one flatmate, so it must be that flatmate. What do you mean Frank brought - Henry? Henry Knight?” There was a pause. “Well, if Frank is bringing unauthorized people in...I mean, especially there… Yeah, we’ll hop on the Tube, be there soon.” He hung up and looked towards Sherlock.

“Do you have everything you need for the day?” Adam asked.

Sherlock nodded.

“Eaten anything?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Digestion slows the mind.”

Adam gave a smirk. “That must drive John mad. He’s always been militant about getting us fed. World’s most competent fusser.” He stood. “I’m going to have to make sure you eat something, even if it’s just a scone. I refuse to be yelled at by a small, slightly terrifying, military trained blonde later today for letting you collapse.”

“I won’t. I regularly do not eat for days”

“And yet, I’m still giving you something to eat at Leadenhall. You can protest all you want,” Adam replied, holding a hand up as if to stop Sherlock from speaking. “But you’ve also never been screamed at by John after he’s found out that you’ve not fed your team. You know how he is - he’s ferocious about things like that. It’s probably the healer in him.” Almost to himself, Adam said, “Should have been a Gry- a lion.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but said nothing as Adam picked up their mugs and brought them to the sink. Adam had said that he was a leader of the Leadenhall Warriors, but what sort of a team would a paper pusher have? What would they be doing that precluded meals? A time frame and a purpose for John’s Leadenhall leadership had yet to be established, and Sherlock was finding that he would probably need both sooner rather than later.  “Very well.” Sherlock conceded slowly. “If I must eat, then I will.”

“Good man.” Adam said, and then motioned for Sherlock to get up. “Come on then.”

Sherlock was well aware where Leadenhall Market was located. He was, however, surprised to find that they were routing to the Monument Tube stop. It was farther away from where they needed to be than other stops would be. They were in for a bit of a walk, Adam had said, but still made for that stop, without addressing Sherlock’s curiosity.

After they had gotten off the Tube, they began perambulating down Eastcheap Street, then took a right at the Boots on the corner, and then meandered up the side of the A1213 until it merged into Gracechurch Street. Ever so often, Sherlock noted, they would encounter gaggles of Watson’s Warriors, bedecked in their yellow scarves. Some would greet them warmly, especially Adam, but others would only nod circumspectly at them, with no apparent idea of who Adam was, which was strange for a supposed leader of Leadenhall. Adam seemed to brush it off lightly, greeting everyone with the same calculated enthusiasm - they would likely remember seeing Adam, but his behavior was not enough to mark him out as someone significant. It was something John did, occasionally, when they were sneaking into (or out of) somewhere they weren’t supposed to be. It had not occurred to Sherlock that this behavior was something that had been trained into his friend. It smacked, if Sherlock wanted to entertain the fancy, of something covert.   
****

“How do you know John?” Sherlock asked, eyeing Adam’s scarf as they reached Boots. There was something off about the scarf, he was coming to realize. Ever so often, between the yellow and black stripes, there would be an odd flash of green or silver thread. He’d never seen that before, but then he’d never looked this closely at the scarves - perhaps more analysis of the scarves at Baker Street was in order. The one that he’d co-opted, Sherlock knew for a fact, was plain yellow and black.

Adam laughed. “Oh, that. We went to the same school when we were younger.” Sherlock tried not to exclaim (internally) in pure glee at the admission. He’d found someone who knew John as a child on his first try!

“Not that we knew each other well then.” Adam continued, almost squashing Sherlock’s hopes. “We were in different school houses. And I am four years older. You tended not to notice firsties that much. Well, unless you were a bully and you wanted their pocket money.” Adam rolled his shoulders. “He was a quiet kid, unless there was something unfair at play, then he’d make himself known.” Adam was lost in thought for a spell. “Should have been a sign right there and then, really.”

“A sign of what?” Sherlock asked, curious.

“John’s helping people complex.” He chuckled at Sherlock’s expression. “Oh come on, you’re his best friend, you’ve probably seen it in spades by now. You don’t think others have oh-so-slightly picked up on it too? That, and the fact that John’s got a moral code to him that’s almost unshakable - though that might be because it turns to shades of grey when he needs it to.”

Sherlock fondly thought of the moment when John killed the cabbie. Yes. John’s moral code was mutable. To a degree. His friend would never allow his morals become so mutable that he would become, say,  a hired assassin if money were tight. “True.”

“Like I said, I graduated a few years earlier than John. Found a job, was dating a nice girl - or so I thought then - and then, well,” Adam shrugged. “Things started to go bad.”

Sherlock wrinkled his brows in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Adam suddenly seemed nervous. He raised his hand, as if he was going to wave away what he’d said, but stopped and lowered it again. “Well.” He said. “You know about John’s parents.”

Sherlock delved into John’s rooms in his mind palace. Eventually he came up with an answer. “I know that his sister Harriet is his only living family,” he rattled off to Adam. “And that his parents died when they both were quite young.”

Adam stopped in the middle of the sidewalk so abruptly that Sherlock had to stop and walk back a few paces. Adam stared at him, then put a hand to his face and rubbed it roughly. “Merlin.” Adam said. “You don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?” Sherlock asked in a low tone, alarmed.

Adam looked at Sherlock with an expression of disbelief. “I can’t believe you don’t know this, for goodness’ sake, you live with the man! You’re his best friend!”

“And clearly I don’t know whatever it is that I should know.” Sherlock hissed. “Just tell me!” _There’s always something_ , a Mycroft-like voice in the back of his mind murmured, _and it seems to be a large something this time. Something large that you’ve apparently missed about John, whom you thought was an open book._

“Shit.” Adam moaned. “I shouldn’t be the one telling you this, John should. You should be asking him! Sod everything.“ He dragged his hand down his face, then in a more conversational tone said "I was really hoping to avoid getting yelled at by today."

Sherlock had had enough of the rant. “Adam.” He said forcefully. “What happened to John’s parents? How did they die?”

Adam's too-blank face arrested Sherlock's attention.  In the sea of London pedestrians, the two men were fixed points, silent, unmoving.  "They were murdered.  John was seventeen, Harriet was ten."

Sherlock mentally reared back, aghast. “What?” He exhaled. How had he missed something so important as this? How had he not realized?

“There was a year, from ‘97-’98?” Adam said, face still blank. “There was a rash of violence across the Isles, you must remember. The Watsons - John’s parents - were some of the first killed. I say killed because it’s kinder. They were slaughtered. John and Harriet escaped. Only just, mind you, but they did. Harriet’s never been the same since. She drinks, I think, or used to.”

Sherlock stared back at Adam, feeling the blood drain from his cheeks, a thundering in his ears. He swallowed sharply. How was this possible? How had John never told him this? Sherlock had been dragging him to all sorts of crime scenes and -

“He wasn’t the only one affected. I was too. Had some serious threats against me, against my siblings. That girlfriend I mentioned? Turned out to be a sympathiser of the group that did John’s parents in - and found out that I wasn’t pretty sharpish.” Adam said. “I ran. We all did. You wouldn’t believe how many of us had to - but it was John who organized the survivors. That’s how we re-met. That’s how the Warriors-” Adam gestured to his scarf. “That’s how we started. That’s what I mean when I said things went bad.”

Sherlock found himself temporarily unable to breathe. Something in his mind tried to grasp what Adam was telling him, something about a bigger picture - but it was drowned out by the thought of John - of John barely escaping a murder that could have been his own years upon years before they had been due to meet.

Adam nodded. “A lot of people owe that man, they have for a long time. When you took your little nose dive off of St. Bart’s? We came out of the woodwork. Most of us figured that it was time to give back just as much as we’d been given. And Merlin did John need it. You might have come back to a very different man if we hadn’t stepped in. John worked his socks off for the lot of us at the age of seventeen. Probably went into the army to get a break from us! And here were were, rushing back.” Adam finished with an amused smile, trying to break the tension. “But he was the one who started the Warriors. He’s a shy man, our John, when it comes to his accomplishments. Too shy, maybe.” He looked Sherlock in the eye. “Now you know. There are others, at Leadenhall or in other places, who owe John just as much as I do. You might meet them when we get there.”

Sherlock was still processing, and only nodded. They spent the rest of the walk in relative silence. Adam not wanting to talk, Sherlock too busy processing. John never mentioned his family, other than Harriet. No anecdotes, no discussions. Sherlock should have realized sooner, really, that John’s family was dead. There had never been Christmas cards, or trips home to see family. Then again, he’d never really, properly paid attention. Even if he’d known that John’s family was dead - how could he possibly have known that John’s parents had been murdered? Most importantly, did Mycroft know? And if so, why had he never said? Lestrade wouldn’t have known, he would have been in school at the time of the murders. Sherlock’s mind finally managed to linger on something that Adam had said -’how many of us had had to run’. Who were the ‘us’? It couldn’t possibly mean that all of the ‘original’ Warriors were from the same school, like John and Adam. It would be too preposterous. And yet.

It was then that Sherlock realized that they were at their destination.

Leadenhall Market was old, dating officially back to the fourteenth century. Theoretically it was older, sitting more or less at the center of what had once been Roman London. It was still what it had always been - a commercial venture for foodstuffs - times may have changed, but human need never did.

The look of the market was far different than what it must have been in Roman times. A roof and color scheme had been designed in 1881, giving the whole market a green, cream, and red theme that still endured. This early in the day, sunlight filtered down through the glass tiles that made up the roof. Walking through the market on any given day gave Sherlock the feeling that he was walking through a dream.

The Market was an extremely busy place. The shops already doing a brisk morning’s business. Sherlock stuck close to Adam as they were jostled, voices around them ringing off of the enclosed space, the cobblestones beneath their feet, until they had reached Chamberlin’s Brasserie and Bar. Adam made a motion, and led him not into the bar, but into what appeared to be an opposing service alleyway, between a Reiss shop and a Jigsaw. Nobody seemed to notice them ducking into the space, though they seemed to be aware that it was there. Adam led Sherlock down the alley, below the sole, ornate, lit lamp, and knocked on one of the two doors. A slot, which had not been visible before, opened to show a pair of eyes. “Password?”

“Honeysuckle.” Adam responded. “He’s with me. He’s John Watson’s flatmate.”

The eyes regarded Sherlock for a second, before there was the sound of a bolt unfastening. “Yeah, alright.” The door opened revealing a teenager, it was hard to tell if the individual was male or female. They had a ridiculous choppy haircut, the hair thinning out as it descended, and it had plastered itself to frame the individual’s face. They wore a long, well worn brown jacket over a extremely bright yellow and black striped shirt. Sherlock examined the person, just as curiously as they examined him. “You the famous tosser?”

Adam rolled his eyes, and brushed past him. “Shut it, Clem. This is Sherlock Holmes. He’ll be bombing around with me today. You let him come and go as he pleases, you understand me?”

Clem looked at Adam dispassionately before muttering a sullen “fine” and shutting the door behind them. The light in the hallway was dim, but not so dim that Sherlock couldn’t make out the odd decorations on the walls. A horizontal streak of yellow paint, the same color as the scarves, ran along the wall, a similar black one running beneath.

Behind them, Clem sullenly leaned against the door with a sardonic expression on his face. Sherlock watched Adam raise an eyebrow at the teen. “Problem?” Adam asked.

“I want to do summat else.” Clem said. “This shit’s boring.”

“What, guard duty not good enough for you?” Adam said levelly. “You could always go back to school.” He said it with false cheer.

“S’boring, this. Just like school.” Clem said. “And this feels pointless. It’s not like we’re at war or anything.”

Adam took one small step towards Clem. “You’re right, we’re not.” He said. “And if we were, I wouldn't have you anywhere near here. Especially not with that attitude. If we were at war again you’d be with the refugees. Am I clear?”

Clem seemed to realize that he’d spoken. He’d come off the door and was standing straight, his arms almost defensively at his side. The sardonic expression was gone. “Yes sir.”

“Good.” Adam replied, stepping back towards Sherlock. “If you think this is boring, find yourself a replacement, and you can go help out at the Sett’s kitchens.” Clem’s face fell. “But, if you really want, you stay on guard duty, and when I think you’re ready, I can start you on training, starting with being a runner.”

Clem hesitated, and then nodded. Adam turned away, seemingly pleased with Clem’s reaction. It was reminiscent of a commanding officer chastising an impertinent soldier.  He didn’t look back. Sherlock followed, staring at the back of Adam’s head, considering his words, and their mild inconsistencies, committing the whole interaction to memory. Behind them, Clem went back to his post a little more attentively than he had before.

A soft sound of chatter grew louder and louder as they went through the dim hallway - the black and yellow lines leading the way to a staircase that Adam led Sherlock up. They emerged into daylight.

“Welcome to the Leadenhall Market headquarters of Watson’s Warriors.” Adam murmured just loudly enough for Sherlock to hear.

At the top of the stairs - the door that separated what was beyond standing open - was a large room that, had he not seen it with his own eyes, Sherlock might not have thought existed considering the outside structure of the Market. It was an old room, the floorboards slightly warped with age, but it was well used. The walls, whatever their original panelling had been, had been replaced entirely by chalkboards. The intense sunlight that flooded the room came from the same glass dome that covered the rest of Leadenhall, the sunlight making dust motes (and chalkdust) dance around the numerous large round tables that dotted the room. The crowd in the room had stopped talking when the pair of them had walked in.

“Morning all.” Adam said loudly to their audience. There was a chorus of polite ‘good mornings’ back. “Hope you’re all doing well. This is Sherlock Holmes.” There was a short burst of murmurs and head craning in Sherlock’s direction. “You should know that name pretty well. He is looking to volunteer with the Warriors for a bit.” There was a tiny bit of suggestion within Adam’s tone, though Sherlock was unsure of what it was, but it sounded almost like a warning. If Adam was warning the Warriors about him, there was something going on here that Sherlock had not yet caught. “Please, make him welcome, talk to him, put him through your paces, show him some of what we do. Oh, and can someone run down to the Sett and get him something, food, drink? Apparently he doesn’t eat, and John’s going to have my hide for dragging him about unfed because he’s probably already going spare.” There was laughter from all corners. “But he’s willing to eat if he’s going to volunteer. I also need someone to find Leticia for me. Is June about?”

‘Here.” A woman about twenty-six years old stepped forward.

“I’ve got some records that I need a second set of eyes on. Do you want in?” Adam asked.

June nodded. “Yes, I’d like to.”

“See my in my so-called office.” Adam said, and then he smiled. “Everyone else, carry on. If you need me, shout.” Turning to Sherlock he said “Just join a group. They’ll let you know what they’re up to, and they might be able to slot you in somewhere.”

Sherlock gave a nod of acknowledgement, and then he was suddenly alone in a room full of strangers, Adam having walked towards one of the tables by the far wall, June following.

Sherlock looked at the Leadenhall Market Warriors. They looked back. Sherlock smiled in an attempt to appear disarming (a tactic that John claimed only worked forty percent of the time), and said ‘hello’. Someone snorted, a few even turned away while someone else brushed past Sherlock to go down the stairs. Sherlock’s smile fell.

* * *

Two hours later, Sherlock was fielding questions about John, forcibly munching on a roll filled with mushroom and spinach, while helping to navigate what seemed to be a small snarl of (the dreaded) patrol rosters, supply logistics, and runner’s schedules. It had turned out to be - surprisingly- a less tedious task than Sherlock had assumed that volunteering with the Warriors would be. He and Volentua - who smartly went by Vee - were tackling the roster along with a team (because apparently it took a team), and Sherlock had thus far gotten into four separate fights - but no one seemed to mind, or care. He’d pointed out several inconsistencies in the supply logistics, and his adopted team had actually thanked him. Vee had, upon one instance, elbowed the man in his seventies sitting next to her (who would have jumped away had he seen it - but he was developing a cataract in one eye) and remarked, “See? I told you we needed a genius on this!”

Dare he say it, but Sherlock was having fun.

Everything was also driving Sherlock a bit mad. The bread roll that he’d been given (which was actually delicious) was from this ‘Sett’ place - but no one would tell him where that was. Or what, exactly the Sett was. It had been mentioned more than once, but no one would own up to even a section of London where it was located - though it had to be nearby. The roll had been warm when it had been given to him. They seemed shifty whenever he asked, which meant that it was either a restaurant or a (more) secretive Warriors headquarters.

There was another thing as well. The way that the Warriors talked about John. John and Sherlock were both celebrities, initially because of John’s blog, but the Warriors spoke as if John was more than that. He did establish the Warriors, apparently, which could have been another reason for the adoration. But… it did not fit. It was like hero worship without any discernible cause for the adulation.

There were also Adam’s (alarming) revelation about John's family to be considered. And the fact that no one else was being quite so forthcoming with anything about John’s childhood.

Sherlock would have quizzed Vee about it, she might have known something, had not the sound of “Love Potion No.9” come ringing across the room  causing cursing and scattered laughter. Two minutes later, Adam was in front of Sherlock’s table.

“Sorry, Mr. Holmes, I’ve got to go. Distress call in greater London. I have to go help, but I can’t leave you here.”

“I can find my own way back to-” Sherlock began.

Adam shook his head. “Them’s the rules. I brought you in as a visitor today. You have to leave with me. If your group likes you -” There were fervent nods in Adam’s direction. “Then you can come back whenever you want. Just text me, I’ll send you the week’s password.”

This was unfair. Extremely unfair. But Sherlock got up as he was bid, said goodbye to his team and that he hoped he’d be back soon - and followed Adam to the stairs.

“Ready?” Adam asked.

Sherlock threw one of the ends of his scarf over one shoulder. “Let’s go.”

* * *

*Sherlock has perhaps not read BadgerTalks (or, as the official name reads: [Essays, Conversations and Appendices for the Master of London](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1113084/chapters/2241281)), or the ‘news’ article about the formation of the Warriors (According to Muggles, with some hints as to the Wizarding side of things) by Laughing_Phoenix, which can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1113084/chapters/2302402).

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	13. The Statute of Secrecy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly has a run in with Auror Corps, a body is identified, and John reveals a secret he's been keeping for quite some time. 
> 
> Alternative chapter title: The Reveal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullo! New chapter at last!
> 
> If you're looking for something to listen to, go listen to my podfic Life and Times. The story is by my good friend rusting_roses. I recorded it for her birthday. At this point, I've got 5 out of 10 ficlets up. 
> 
> Also, pay attention to the notes at the end. 
> 
> -teacup

* * *

 Molly knew that they would come eventually. Every other time that she’d had cause to flag a report for the Ministry of Magic’s notice someone from the Auror’s office - not even a full Auror most of the time, usually it was an administrator - would come down to check out what she’d reported, and then the Aurors would take it from there. Normally they came within two days, jumping on anything that might threaten the Statute of Secrecy as fast as possible. It had, however, been a week since she’d filed the report detailing the dockworker’s wounds and no one had come yet. The dockworker, considering the state he’d been in upon arrival, couldn’t be kept in the fridge for much longer. No family had yet been identified that might claim the body, but he still needed to be moved. Not just because he was starting to get a bit rank, but because there were more deceased piling (metaphorically) into the mortuary, and there just wasn’t enough room for them all.

Oh well.  Even if attitudes were changing among the wizards, Molly reasoned, they were changing so slowly that she’d never receive any benefit. She wouldn’t have minded if someone from the Auror’s office decided not to come at all. In truth, her dealings with the Ministry had always been a bit toxic. She’d had more threats of Obliviation from members of the Auror Corps than from Death Eaters. Not to say that they were all bad, but the older Aurors still held some prejudices. Though she was a known (and somewhat high-profile) member of the Warriors and though she filed reports with the Office of Muggle Affairs often enough to be recognized, there were some that still viewed her as an interloper. It was why John had offered her guards.

Her current guards weren’t lingering about the mortuary. Goodness knew how many questions having Warriors lope about the basement playing disguised games of Exploding Snap would have raised from her superiors. No, her guards were lingering about the cafeteria on the first floor, only a text away.

It perhaps wasn’t the best place for them, Molly reflected as the sudden, distinctive pops of Apparition came from the hallway outside the mortuary. Three, rather than the one that she’d been expecting. Knowing she had to be quick, Molly took out her phone and quickly typed out a text, then dialed the phone out and silenced it before slipping it into her pocket. If anything adverse happened, the Warriors would hear it. She finished, her hands drifting back to the papers on her desk, not a moment too soon.

The door to the mortuary banged open. At first sight of the senior Auror who strode into the room, Molly felt like groaning internally. It was going to be one of those visits. She didn’t know the Auror specifically, but she and the Warriors had dealt with his type before. Head up, shoulders back, and a permanent wrinkle to his nose from the moment that he stepped into the mortuary. Not, Molly knew, the sign of someone who spent much time doing field work. His red Auror’s robes were bright red, not a crinkle in them. No dirt clung to the hems either. The second auror in this group was evidently a trainee, and happily seemed to know what procedures to follow, as his mentor was clearly not going to do them. The smaller, younger man in robes that were appropriately dusty at the bottom closed the mortuary door and placed the Muggle repelling charms that Molly was at least familiar with on the door before coming to stand just slightly behind the senior Auror. The last man was, thankfully someone that Molly did recognize. Octavian Winegold was an administrator and the Muggle Affairs Office liaison to the Aurors office. He’d come once or twice, or else sent one of his adjuncts to see Molly over cases that had been prolonged because an Auror hadn’t done what they needed to (or had tried to Obliviate her).

Molly forced herself to smile. “Good morning.” She nodded more congenially at Octavian, but before she could speak, she was interrupted by the Senior Auror.

“Good morning.” The senior Auror said. “I know we must look strange.”

_Wonderful_ , Molly thought. _He thinks I’m a Muggle, and he’s decided that he needs to talk to me as if I’m a child._  

“We’re looking for a Molly Hooper.” The senior Auror finished.

“Yes.” Molly said flatly. “I know who you are. I’m Molly Hooper. I flagged a report about a week ago and sent it to the Office of Muggle Affairs.”

The senior Auror raised an eyebrow, taking Molly in, before Octavian stepped forward around the other man and gave him a dirty look before speaking to Molly directly. “Hello Molly. Sorry to burst in on you like this, en masse as it were.” Octavian began, but was cut off from his niceties by the senior Auror. The junior Auror looked a bit tense, watching the backs of both men as if he was prepared to jump between them.

“We got a report that someone was claiming that a body had been brought in of a man killed by apparent magically inflicted wounds.” He took his eyes off of Molly to look around the mortuary. “I am Senior Auror Elgin, this is Trainee Wynton. And apparently you already know Administrator Winegold.” His entitled drawl was starting to piss Molly off somewhat, and, as far as she could read body language, it was doing the same to Octavian.

Molly nodded. “Pleasure to meet you.” She briefly took note of the junior Auror. Wynton didn’t seem as ruffled by the mortuary as his older partner clearly was - Molly was going to politely assume that Elgin was uncomfortable because of the smell, and not because of the Muggle surroundings. Auror Wynton didn’t seem fazed in the least. In fact, he looked a bit familiar. Only then did Molly recognize the last name from the Muggleborn Network*. There had been a family named Wynton who’d registered their son, and later their daughter as Muggleborn students at Hogwarts. She hadn’t realized the son had graduated and gone into the Auror program.

“As I was saying.” Octavian said to Molly with a bitter smile. “I’m sorry to have burst in. Auror Wynton is in training, and is shadowing Auror Elgin. This will be Auror Elgin’s first time as a mentor, and he seemed to feel that Auror Wynton would need to come on one of these visits to see a Muggle mortuary.”

“It isn’t strange, really, my Dad owns a funeral home.” Wynton offered, but was glared at by Elgin.

Molly nodded, hiding a smile. “Nice to meet you both. Can I get you anything, before I take you to see the body?” She paused. “Actually, I think I’ll wait for an answer on that until after you’ve seen the body.”

Auror Elgin snorted. “It can’t be that bad, surely.”

Molly winced. Internally, she was cackling. Was it bad, using a dead man’s misfortune to mess with one among the living? “I’ve been a mortician for over a decade, Auror Elgin, and I was in London during the War. This is still, by far, one of the worst things I have ever seen.”

She wasn’t sure if it had been the mention of the War, or her experience that had brought the haughty expression off of Elgin’s face - but she was gratified to find that it had at least taken him down a peg. Molly stood from her desk, went around and beckoned them towards her.

From a tray by the door that lead to the examination room she took plastic gloves and face masks. The Aurors looked nonplussed when she motioned them to put them on as well. “You need them to view the body, to get close. Muggle regulations**.”

For a brief moment Auror Elgin looked mutinous. But when Auror Wynton stepped forward and took them, he acquiesced. Molly had to bite her lip when Wynton snapped the gloves on overly dramatically in front of Elgin, because he could.

When Molly finally brought out the body of the dockworker, Auror Wynton looked away for a brief moment, then seemed to bring his attention back, but was - at least to Molly’s eyes - looking at the morgue table rather than the body itself. Auror Elgin turned positively green and took a step back. Octavian coughed and then averted his eyes to the wall beyond the morgue table and Molly.

Molly chose to ignore them, treating the threesome like any other detective come to get information on a murder victim. “The deceased is male, age approximately in his late forties to early fifties. He was found dead at a dockyard on the evening of March the sixth. The extent of the rigor mortis at the time of initial examination suggested that he had been killed anywhere from six to eight hours prior. Blood alcohol content was point one zero, two points above the legal limit for intoxication, so he was fairly drunk at the time he was killed. Cause of death was exsanguination and massive trauma due to an unknown number of repeated wounds to the chest with an unknown object. Several pierced the chest cavity and entered the lungs. All wounds were inflicted pre-mortem.” She rattled off.

“There was, however, some peculiar bruising on his lower abdomen, as if a heavy weight, perhaps a person’s knee, rested there for a long period of time.” She pointed out her findings as she listed them. She picked up the hand of the deceased. “He did not, to all appearances, put up a struggle. There were no scratches, no skin under his fingernails. There are no signs of physical restraints, nor any physical trace of an assailant.” She replaced the hand, and stepped back. “Blood tests show that he might very well have been fully aware of what was happening to him. He had extremely high levels of cortisol and epinephrine in his bloodstream at the time he died,” At Octavian’s blank look, Molly remembered that she needed to explain. “They’re chemicals in the blood. We can measure them to see how much was present at the time of death. The more there is, the more stress they are under, or in pain, or afraid they were.”

Octavian looked impressed. “So in your opinion, he was conscious as this was happening to him?”

“Yes.”Molly said succinctly.

“Would he -” Wynton began slowly. “If he didn’t put up a fight, would it be possible there was something in his drink that made him so passive he didn’t fight back?”

Molly nodded. “Yes. There are Muggle chemicals that would do such a thing, easily slipped into food or drink. We did get our laboratory to do a toxicology - a drug screening - for him. There were no traces of anything of the sort in his system. Admittedly, there are one or two drugs that we can’t actually test for. They don’t show up in screenings. But those in particular would have knocked him out cold, not allowed him to stay awake for the ordeal. There are quite a number of other tests we can run, and I will be doing them, but they do take much longer.” She paused. “In my professional opinion, this man was tortured. Whoever did it wanted him to suffer. And to know who was doing it to him.”

Octavian glanced at the dead man’s face and shuddered. Elgin looked as if he was doing some actual thinking, and Wynton was frowning down at the dead man’s abdomen.

“These tests that you run,” Elgin said. “Are they as accurate as magical tests?”

Molly frowned. “Well, I’m not actually certain. I don’t even know if magical tests look for the same things. After all, magic users would be looking for potions, while the Muggle tests would look for Muggle known toxins and chemicals. There isn’t a median between them, as far as I know. And no one has bothered to do any comparison studies.”

“So what you are, in fact saying, is that you know how this man died, but can only offer conjecture as to the rest.” Elgin sniffed.

Molly tensed up. “That is not what I’m saying at all!” She snapped. “I know how this man died, because I did the autopsy. The toxicology screenings are the same screenings that we do for every suspicious death that comes through the morgue. They are tried and tested. Just because they weren’t done by waving a wand about doesn’t make them less valid!”

“She’s absolutely correct, Auror Elgin.” Octavian said lowly. “Muggle forensic science is just that, a science. They simply look for different indications of foul play than we do.”

Elgin scowled. “Then what was your reason for calling us in?” He asked Molly petulantly.

“The fact that there was no obvious sign of restraint,” Molly said, through barely clenched teeth. “Which led me to believe that, unless he laid down and decided not to struggle while someone cut him open repeatedly, magic had to be involved. Also because, according to the Detective Inspector investigating the case, this man was killed in a well travelled, open, space. But no one saw or heard anything. That, and I have actually seen wounds like this before. And I know for a fact that they were magical wounds - caused by a wand.”

Elgin seemed not to want to acknowledge Molly’s words as the truth they were. Instead, he brandished his wand, and pointed it at the corpse. “We shall run some magical tests to see if you are correct, or if you have wasted valuable Ministry time.”

Molly wanted to punch him. Only the presence of Octavian stopped her.

Seeing magic performed, even under such antagonistic circumstances, was still interesting to watch. A sickly blue light emanated from Auror Elgin’s wand and slowly enveloped the body of the dockworker. There it lingered for a little over a minute. And then the spell started generating data. First, where the spell hovered over the dockworker’s body, over the evidence of the spells presumably cast by the killer, the color of the light changed to a sickly, yellow-green color, and shone. The brightest region was where the most spell damage had been done - in this case, the dockworker’s chest. Above that area shone - in red - the name of the spell. The horribly familiar _Sectumsempra_ gleamed, as did the number of times it had been cast - thirty eight. A small gasp could be heard from Auror Wynton, but the diagnostic spell continued to reveal more spellwork.

From beneath the dockworker’s back came a misty trail of spell light, with the word _Stupefy_ , apparently having been cast just once. Several more rose from the man's face, identifying not one, but eight separate _Ennervates_. Two more appeared at the throat, showing a _Petrificus Totalus_ , and a _Silencio_. A final _Finite_ had been cast on the man’s legs, almost as an afterthought.

When he was apparently satisfied, Elgin cancelled the spell. Behind him, Auror Wynton was shaking slightly. Elgin breathed out gently through his mouth, also apparently shaken. “It seems you were correct, Ms. Hooper.” He said softly.

After a moment in which everyone but Molly collected themselves, Octavian, who looked a little disturbed, said. “I think we should proceed with the paperwork to transfer this poor sod to Ministry custody.”

Molly agreed. “I have the paperwork on my desk. Come this way. You can toss your masks and gloves into the wastebasket over there.”

Octavian was the one most concerned with the paperwork. He - or the people he sent to handle these sorts of things - usually were. The paperwork - kept at the far, far back of an ill-used filing cabinet - detailed the transfer request, and the cover story that would be used to explain the corpse’s disappearance. The simple excuses were always best - someone came to pick up the body, etcetera, etcetera. In some cases, and Molly feared that this would be one of them, the Muggle detectives would also be Obliviated to keep the whole incident under wraps. If that was considered prudent this time, Molly mused, pulling John’s name as her own personal trump card might be the only way to save Greg Lestrade and co. from that treatment. Usually, Aurors would arrive a day after this visit to pick up the body, but with Aurors Elgin and Wynton there, there was a distinct possibility that they would be able to transport the dockworker now. Several times as they discussed the paperwork, Octavian seemed to be on the edge of saying something, but stopped himself from doing so each time.

When the paperwork was done, Octavian stood from the desk, rolled the parchment up and stuck it in his suit jacket pocket. “Molly.” He said. “Thank you.”

“Anytime.” Molly smiled. “Glad to be of help.”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw movement and turned towards Auror Elgin. He was not, as she thought he might be, moving back towards where the body of the dockworker lay, but rolling up his sleeves. And then he pointed his wand at her. Alarmed, Molly stepped back. “What are you doing?”

Within a split second - at least what seemed like a split second - Auror Wynton was between herself and Auror Elgin. “Sir? You can’t Obliviate Dr. Hooper!"

Octavian was beside Molly now, his face purpling with anger. “Elgin, what the blazes are you trying to do?”

Auror Elgin seemed to flounder. “It is proper procedure. We Obliviate any Muggles after their contact with the Wizarding World, even if they are informants. They remember the Wizarding World and who to contact, but not the specific incident.”

Octavian froze. “I’ve never heard of that protocol that in my life! Aside from that, Auror Elgin, Molly Hooper, if you’d been listening, is not a Muggle. She is well aware of the Wizarding World, and has clearly never been Obliviated. She’s not pure Muggle, for goodness sake!”

Auror Elgin shrugged. “An oversight,” he said, but his wand was dipping lower, and his confidence seemed to be dropping as well. “It must be. The woman knows so little about magic itself. She must have duped the others who came here into not wiping her memories.”

The door to the mortuary opened. Molly’s guards - one of whom had his cellphone in hand - walked into the room, wands out and assessing the situation. Their black and yellow scarves were bright badges in the stainless steel of the mortuary.

“Well, well.” One of the guards, a short auburn haired woman said. “What do we have here?”

The other guard lifted his wand arm. “Not to sound threatening, Auror, but I would think very carefully about putting your wand back in its holster.”

Auror Elgin stared. “Warriors? What possible reason would you have to burst in on this - we are here on Ministry business! Go about yours!”

“I’m afraid, Auror,” the auburn haired woman said. “That this is our business, as you appear to be trying to do Molly Hooper a mischief, and she happens to be one of us.”

Auror Elgin shot a startled look at Molly. She smiled back.

“It’s true, sir.” Auror Wynton pleaded. “She’s with the Muggleborn Network too, sir. Please put your wand down!”

His trainee’s pleas seemed to jolt Auror Elgin, and he lowered his wand completely. Molly felt herself breathe again - she hadn’t been aware until this moment that she’d stopped. Octavian stepped forward, swifter than Molly had thought possible, and relieved Auror Elgin of his wand, sans magic. He looked to the Warriors, and then to Molly. “I apologize for Auror Elgin, and on the behalf of the Ministry.” He looked to Elgin. “We’re taking this body back to the Ministry, and then you, Auror, will meet me in my office.”

“Why?” Auror Elgin asked.

Octavian’s smile was not a comforting one. “We are going to go over your case reports. Every single one of them. If you are fully prepared to Obliviate one woman with clear connections to our world, no questions asked, I shudder to think how many others you’ve done this to.”

Auror Elgin stuttered. “I’ve worked hundreds of cases!”

“And we shall be going through them all. Individually. At length.” Octavian looked at Auror Wynton. “Wynton, has he asked you to do any Obliviations?”

Auror Wynton shook his head. “No sir. I will swear to that under Veritaserum.” He paused. “I’ve seen him do some, but-” He glanced at Elgin, shamefaced. “I can’t say if any of them weren’t valid, sir. But I don’t know - I - ” There were tears in his eyes. “Am I going to be kicked out of the Auror program sir?” He asked quietly.

“Unlikely.’ Octavian said. “You’ve been in, what, a month and a half beyond basic training?”

“Yes sir.” Auror Wynton said quietly.

“Then it is very unlikely. Go and collect the body of the dockworker, Auror Wynton, if you’d be so kind.” Octavian said, and then turning to the Warriors, “would one of you mind going with him?” The taller Warrior nodded and followed Wynton, who seemed to be trying not to cry.

Octavian took Auror Elgin by side-along Apparation back to the Ministry before Auror Wynton came back, the body of the dockworker having been shrunk down and stored in a special box for the purpose. It was tucked safely under Auror Wynton’s arm. He stopped in front of Molly.

“I’m sorry.” He said, his voice trembling. “I didn’t know he’d do that. I swear he didn’t. He gets funny around the Muggle world, but I never thought -”

Instinctively, Molly hugged him. “It’s alright. Not the first time an Auror’s tried to do that.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Auror Wynton, for all that he was eighteen and had made it into the Auror program, began to cry. Even the tall Warrior seemed to feel bad, and patted him on the back.

“No! No! Don’t cry! I didn’t mean it like that!” Molly exclaimed, and then reached out to hug him again. “It wasn’t your fault. I promise. Hopefully, Auror Elgin will be taught not to do things like that again.” She wiped his cheek. “Everything will be alright. But if you have any trouble, you remember how to contact me? I’ll make sure everyone knows you did nothing wrong.”

Auror Wynton nodded. “Thank you Dr. Hooper.”

Molly smiled. “Thank you for stepping in front of me and stopping Auror Elgin. Come and have tea sometime? I’m usually fairly free.”

Auror Wynton nodded, agreeing, and then was gone with a “pop”.

The auburn haired Warrior closed her flip phone. “Well that was interesting.”

Molly suddenly couldn’t hold back giggles. “I suppose?”

The warrior came closer. “You sure you’re alright? I get held at wandpoint on occasion, and I’m never quite ok afterwards.”

Molly shook her head, trying to hide the fact that she was shaking a bit. “No, no. I’m fine.”

The Warrior looked at her skeptically, reached into her pocket, and withdrew half a bar of Honeydukes dark chocolate. Breaking a piece off, she handed it to Molly. “Good for Dementors and adverse interactions with Aurors.” She joked.

Molly couldn’t help it; she grinned, and then ate the chocolate. She did actually feel better afterwards.

“We’ll go back upstairs.” The taller Warrior said. “Call again, if you need us. We’ll be back later for more information for our report on the incident.”

Molly winced. “Any chance you can make sure that Frank doesn’t see the report?”

The auburn haired Warrior grinned. “No, sorry luv. Against the rules, as it were. He likes to keep special tabs on certain people.” She winked.

Molly made a mental note to prepare for a visit by an overly anxious Frank. “Ok. I’ll see you later then.”

Both Warriors bid her goodbye, and left the morgue - taking the Muggle repelling charm off the door as they went. Molly went back to her desk to file paperwork, mildly wondering if she would bribe more chocolate off of the Warrior.

Less than ten minutes later there was another ruckus, this time not from the door into the hallway that the Aurors had come through, but from the door towards the loading bay, on the opposite end of the mortuary. Molly got up just as one of the Scotland Yard forensics men she’d recognized from years of work, came through with a stretcher, upon which was loaded a body bag - which was, oddly, dripping water.

“Sorry for the mess Dr. Hooper.” He said. “But Detective Inspector Lestrade insisted that this one come directly to you.”

“Oh?” Molly asked, already directing him towards an empty mortuary table and looking for latex gloves.

“Yup.” His assistant grunted, helping his colleague lift this body onto the table. “He says it’s another weird one.”

Molly smiled, pulling on the gloves she’d snagged from the nearest box. “I think I’ll be the one to determine that. Where were they found?”

“Trafalgar Square fountain, if you’d believe it.” The first man said. “It’s on the news now, surprised you haven’t seen it.”

“Been busy.” Molly replied. “Explains the dripping though. Need me to collect anything specific? A water sample, perhaps?”

“Anything you can get.” The assistant said. “We did our best at the scene, but… Well, you’ll see when you get the bag open. There are two, incidentally. We couldn’t really do much to keep his chest intact. Don’t worry about the water, we can collect at least a few cc’s from the bottom of the truck.”

The mention of the man’s chest piqued Molly’s interest, the dead dockworker still firmly in her mind, but she went to open the two bags first - putting on a mask as she moved. “Any initial indications of cause of death?”

“I’d say a slit throat.” The first man said with a grimace. “But it’s hard to tell.”

“Yeah. Not with the chest. Like hamburger.” The assistant said. “I’ve never seen that many new coppers lose their dinners.”

“We’ll stick the paperwork on your desk?” The first man said.

“Please.” Molly said, already distracted. “Just sign off on my log. I’ll fax the relevant paperwork to the Yard as soon as possible.”

The two men were already on the move. “Cheers! See you later.” One of them called.

“Bye!” Molly yelled, and then unzipped the second bag. And froze.

There was a slit throat. That was readily apparent, and the chest of this body looked so much like the dockworker’s it had to be the same modus operandi***. It was the face that had given Molly pause. She knew that face. Not from the Muggle media either. She unzipped the body bags further. It was the color of the blatantly wizarding robes and the long, nearly white blonde hair that cemented her suspicion. Molly let out a ragged breath, then got a sheet and drew it over the wizard. She then snapped her gloves off, the mask following suit, and dug out her phone again.

It rang once, and then twice. The voice of the auburn haired Warrior answered. “Molly?”

“Another body just came in.” Molly said. She was fighting to keep her voice steady. “I need you to go get Octavian Winegold - the Auror Office administrator who was just here, or the younger auror.” She swore, a bit of the nerves she suddenly felt coming through her tone. “Oh, it doesn’t matter, any Auror will do!”

“I’m coming down there.” The auburn haired Warrior said, and it sounded like she was moving quickly.

“That’s fine.” Molly said, more calmly than she felt. “But I need you to send your partner to the Ministry now.”

“What -” The other woman began.

“The new dead man is definitely a wizard. Very definitely a wizard.” She took a breath before continuing. “He looks very much like - I think it’s Calix Lucien.”

“Are you sure?” The Warrior asked. She muttered something to someone, presumably her partner.

Molly look a look under the sheet again. “Yes.”

The auburn haired warrior took a sharp breath and, a floor above Molly, broke into a run.

* * *

It was early in the morning - just before dawn - when a sleek black car came to a slow, discrete stop outside of a newsstand in central London. It wasn’t an usual sight (except for the hour, but then London was full of early commuters). There was only one other person browsing the newsstand, and the owner of the stand would have bid him to move along already (he’d been there for fifteen minutes and was halfway through the Guardian - his stand wasn’t a library), if the man in question hadn’t been wearing a stunningly nondescript suit.  People only stayed that long at the newsstand at this hour for one reason.

And he’d learned, over the years, to pretend to ignore these annoying people because of it.

The door of the sleek black car opened quietly, releasing Mycroft Holmes from it’s murky depths. The other suited man looked up, just for a moment, before looking down at the Guardian, no sign of recognition on his face. Mycroft glanced back at the man, also showing no sign of recognition, and walked up to the stand. He smiled at the newsstand clerk.

“Do you have the Times?” He asked.

“Haven’t had a chance to put it out yet.” The clerk said, honestly. “We’ve got them round the back. I can get you one.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft replied. “Take your time.”

When the clerk was gone, the man reading the Guardian folded his paper closed and turned to Mycroft. “Sir.”

“What news?” Mycroft asked, aiming for a pun that neither man would dare laugh at externally. “Your message said that it was an emergency.”

“It is one.” The other man said. “Calix Lucien was discovered dead in Trafalgar Square fountain last night. He’s in a Muggle mortuary now.”

Mycroft’s face froze. “Lucien? Prominent Light Wizard family, if I’m not mistaken. Calix was very high up in that family, wasn’t he? And quite a public figure as well. How did he end up in the fountain?”

The other man shook his head. “One of the heads of the family. And we’re not quite sure. But the Ministry is taking an interest, if you understand my meaning sir.”

“Unfortunately, I do.” Mycroft said dryly, shifting his weight and his grip on his umbrella. “So they know already.”

“According to my source, the Aurors were already there visiting about another body. Lucien’s came in a little after they left. Whoever their contact in the mortuary is recognized Lucien and called them back.”

“Damn.” Mycroft said lightly. Inwardly he was more than somewhat irked. He had people at each mortuary to prevent these things from happening. If the wizarding world was going to leak into the Muggle world, he wanted to know about it before the wizards did. “The press?”

“They’re all over the story of a body being found in the fountain, as it’s a landmark. But they don’t have any details yet.” The man held up the front page of the Guardian for emphasis. Mycroft glanced at the headline, then ignored it.

“Good. Mycroft intoned. “Let’s keep it that way, shall we? Do we know who is working for the Auror’s office in that particular mortuary?”

“No sir. All of them cleared background checks, all properly Muggles. But we haven’t had much luck confirming that with any wizard records yet, because they’re paper-based.”

Mycroft nodded in acknowledgement of that particular wizarding failing. Computers would make understanding the wizarding world that much easier, but it was unlikely that the Wizarding world would adopt that measure. “Do it when you can, with expediency.” He said. “Have the wizards made any moves yet?”

“Not that I’m aware of, sir. Haven’t even moved the body out of the morgue, which is unusual. They’re trying to keep this as quiet as they can, I think, after that murder in the Alley this week.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. “Another murder? Do tell.” It wasn’t a request.

* * *

“He’s not in the system, sorry sir.”

”Thanks for checking.” Greg had been looking over the shoulder of the constable manning the missing persons database for the morning shift. He withdrew and clapped the other man on the shoulder.

“It’s not a problem sir. When was the body found again?”

“Last night, so it’s not a surprise that they’re not in the system. His family, if he’s got any, can’t officially report him missing until the seventy-two hour window is up. Keep me updated, constable. Anything comes up, I’m the first to know.”

“Yes sir.”

Greg plodded towards his office, making a detour first for a cup of the crap coffee the Yarders practically lived on. His first coffee of the day, but likely not the last. Greg had hoped, though it was unlikely, that the bloke from the Trafalgar Square fountain had been reported missing before. The man had looked like he’d been in some sort of cult, so Greg had hoped that maybe he’d been listed as a runaway (even though he’d been in his late thirties, early forties?). If he’d run away when he was younger, he’d still be in the system. Stranger things had happened.

Dealing with the press, fortunately, hadn’t been his job this time. Sally was fantastic at dealing with journalists in ways that Greg had never been. She could shut down stupid inquiries with just a look, and didn’t give them any rope to pull on. He himself, admittedly, usually just got angry with the press (mainly because their questions were, on occasion, downright inane. So he’d pushed her in the direction of the reporters, and all was well - for now. No doubt he’d have to face them sooner or later.

Greg’s pants pocket buzzed, so the detective inspector took his phone from his pocket to check his texts. He’d sent a few to Sherlock after the second body had been discovered, but the git hadn’t responded.

The first one had been meant to pique Sherlock’s interest. _Got a weird one - looks like the same MO as that dockworker._ Usually, Sherlock would fly (metaphorically) to a crime scene after a text like that. Except that this time, he hadn’t.

The next one hadn’t provoked a response either. _Seriously, where are you?  I can't hold the scene any longer._

And then lastly. _Did you get bloody kidnapped or something? If you did I'm not explaining it to John. Unless he’s with you. Must be, because I can’t raise him either._   

Sherlock’s replies - sent just now - weren’t exactly much in the way of explanation.

_Was spending time with the Warriors. Will come to the Yard now. -SH_

And then, rapidly.

_What do you mean you won’t explain it to John? - SH_

_He’s not my minder. - SH_ (John might as well be, Greg thought in response.)

_Have you tried the clinic?ǂ - SH_

Greg rolled his eyes and replied. _Yes, I tried the clinic. You never spend time with the Warriors. What is your ETA?_

He looked up at the sound of footsteps coming down the carpeted corridor - and they had to be loud to make noise on carpet. He knew that walk. “Sally, where’s the fire?”

“Boss,” Sally said. She looked a little bit pissed off. “There’s been a bit of an upset.”

“What kind of upset?”

“We’ve been taken off the case - the Trafalgar Fountain body and the dockworker.”

“What?!” Greg looked for somewhere to put his cup down, but couldn't find one. “On whose orders?”

“Dunno. The bloke on the phone just said the orders were from ‘higher up’. The dynamic duo are supposed to be off it as well.”

“Phaw, Sherlock’s going to love that.” Greg said sarcastically. He didnt like it much either. “Who was the bloke on the phone?”

“Said his name was Winegold. I’ve never heard of him before. He’s not in the Yard phone book. If he’s higher up than that, then I have no idea what department he’s from.”

Greg pinched the bridge of his nose. “Alright. Come on.” He handed off his cup to a passing constable, who startled but took it anyway in confusion. Greg led the way back down the corridor.

“Where are we going?” asked Sally, following behind. Which was good, it would stop him from doing something more stupid than what he was already going to do.

“We’re going to lodge a complaint with the super.”

“That’s a bad idea.”

“I know. We're going to do it anyway. I want to know what's bloody going on.”

There was another buzz from Greg’s pocket, and he got his phone back out, distractedly, as he hurried down the various hallways of New Scotland Yard. When he stopped short looking at the phone’s screen, Sally nearly ran into him.

“What’s - Greg?”

“Change of plan.” Greg said slowly. “Come on.” He changed course, walking towards the front lobby.

“Where are we going now?!” Sally asked in desperation.

“Just follow me.”

Outside of New Scotland Yard, a sleek black car waited.

* * *

In 221b, Sherlock stood by the window watching the street below and raged. He hated being given orders, especially by Mycroft. The text he’d received from his dear brother had said that his visit had to do with the dockworker case, which was the only reason that the consulting detective was complying with Mycroft’s request that he stay at home. For now.

Further down the street, he could see the Warriors monitoring a sleek black car that had just turned into the road and was coming towards the house. Sherlock sighed, turned away from the window, and - for a moment - considered making for the empty kitchen table - which he’d cleaned half an hour before due to a fit of pique and knowledge that he was supposed to have done it when John had asked him to. John had seemed oddly strained when he’d left the day before last. Sherlock supposed he might try to lessen it, a little. As long as no one else noticed. 

John still wasn’t back yet, and he was in danger of missing whatever this meeting was.

The downstairs door opened, and instead of the solitary footsteps of Mycroft that Sherlock had expected, he also heard the sound of Lestrade’s footsteps, and Sally’s. But not John’s. Interesting. To avoid looking like he’d been waiting for them, Sherlock quickly grabbed the remains of the morning paper and seated himself in his usual armchair.

Mycroft and his entourage (consisting of Greg and Sally, but no bodyguards, which was interesting) came in without first bothering to knock.

“Don’t pretend that you weren’t watching us from the window, it isn’t very becoming.” Mycroft replied with ease. “I’m here on a matter of urgency.”

Sherlock threw his paper to the side. “Hello to you too, brother dear. Since we’ve decided to drop all pretense, why have you come? We were working on a case involving a dockworker, and now supposedly this man in the fountain last night, and -”

“We’ve been tossed off the case.” Lestrade told him, less angry than he had been at New Scotland Yard.

The news brought Sherlock up with a start. “What?!” He turned to Mycroft. “Why?”

“We don’t know.” Sally said.

Everyone’s attention shifted to Mycroft. The 'minor government official' gestured to the empty kitchen table. “Shall we?” As they made their way to the table (unhappily, in certain cases), Mycroft retrieved a folder that had been tucked under his arm.  “You have been taken off of the case of the two dead men. I may be able to arrange your reinstatement.”

“How?” demanded Greg. “And why were we taken off of it in the first place?”

Mycroft opened the folder in his hands and passed out the contents. Sherlock took one look at the form, and shook his head.

“I’ve already signed one of these.”

Sally was frowning at the form. “This is the Official Secrets Act. Why would we need to sign this for a dead dockworker and a cosplayer?”

Greg rolled his eyes. “We don’t know that that’s what the man was.” He turned to Mycroft. “I agree with Sally, though.”

“I do as well.” Sherlock thirded. “And I will not sign one of these until John is also present to sign one. I need him.”

Mycroft quirked up the side of his mouth. “The good doctor is on his way. And you may have signed the Official Secrets Act before Sherlock, but you have not signed this version, I guarantee you. Before I can tell you anything at all, you must sign them.”

Sally took a pen and signed her copy automatically. Greg and Sherlock stared at her. “What?” She shrugged, putting her pen on the table. “I want to know.”

Mycroft didn’t say anything, but his mouth quirked again. Downstairs, the front door opened, and Sherlock could pick up John’s familiar footfalls padding up the stairs. When John came into the room, he looked a bit frazzled, his brow knitted together, his jacket thrown over one arm. He paused in the doorway, not surprised to see them, but possibly a little surprised at the quiet when he’d walked in.

“Er, hello.” John came fully into the room and shut the door behind him. “I got the text about the meeting, but I didn’t realize we were going to meet so soon.”

“It is a matter of urgency John.” Mycroft explained. “Please sit.”

John nodded. “Ok. Can I get tea for anyone?”

Greg looked as if he was about to say yes, but was forestalled when Mycroft interjected. “We haven’t time.”

John nodded once more, and took a seat at the opposite end of the table across from Mycroft, Sherlock on his left. Sherlock passed him a non-disclosure form. “We’ve been taken off the dockworker case.” He told John.

John’s head shot up from his perusal of the form, concern flashing across his features. “Why?”

“I was about to explain. That, in front of you John, is a special version of the Official Secrets Act. If any of you are to be allowed on the case again, you are required to sign that form.” Mycroft looked at them all expectantly. “Donovan has already done so. Sherlock and Gregory were apparently waiting for you. Incidentally, I hope that your sister is well.”

“Ok.” John said. “She’s fine, we just needed to talk to - Sorry, are you having me followed?”

“Generally,” Mycroft replied smoothly. “I try to have a close eye on anything that involves Sherlock. Sherlock and I consider you to be a friend. That, and the frequency with which you are kidnapped, requires a close eye be kept upon you at most times.”

Greg snorted, then tried to pretend that he hadn’t. John raised an eyebrow at him. “The man has a point.” Greg said sheepishly.

"We'll talk about this later." John said, glaring at Mycroft. Mycroft was unfazed, and possibly a little amused.

Sherlock snarled, snatched the pen from in front of Sally, flipped to the last page of the Official Secrets Act, and signed it with a flourish. He then pushed the completed form towards Mycroft. “There, happy? Tell us what’s going on.”

The dam broke. John took out a pen of his own, while Mycroft collected the completed forms. Greg signed his own form, and handed it over. John looked at the form, almost snorted aloud, and then handed his copy over as well, though no one seemed to realize that he hadn’t actually signed it. He didn't really need to.

Mycroft, with the speed of someone who has a captive audience and knows it, placed the copies of the Official Secrets Act back in their folder, tied it shut, and leaned back in his chair.

“The two dead men have very different backgrounds, their paths would likely, in life, never have crossed. This is apparent.” Greg was nodding his head. “Or so it seems.’ Mycroft continued. “They do have one, immediately visible connection.”

“Their killer.” Sally supplied.

“Yes.” Mycroft said, acknowledging Sally’s remark. “And a secret. It is not likely that they were killed because of that secret, but they had to know of it to have been killed in the manner that they were.”

“Sorry?” John asked. “Two dead men? I thought we’d only had this dockworker.”

“We found a man in the Trafalgar Square fountain last night. He was wearing these things that looked like medieval robes.” Greg said.

“Uh, ok.” John said, eyebrows raised. “Is that what last night’s texts were about?”

“I’ll fill you in after.” Greg said, and John agreed.

“Out with it.” Sherlock snarled at Mycroft. “What secret are you talking about?”

John suddenly felt lead drop into his stomach as he realized something. Robes, and secrets. There was a distinct possibility that the combination meant… The whole meeting was now taking on a surreal quality, as John watched Mycroft intently for the answer to Sherlock's question. 

Mycroft smiled wanly, and for the first time, he looked somewhat put out. “Very well.” He straightened in the chair. “Tell me, if I were to inform you that magic was not, in fact, the sole province of fiction, how would you respond?”

There was a very long, very tense silence. John could practically feel London, in the back of his mind, doing its own approximation of excited squealing. It thought that this was funny. Which, to a certain extent, it was. But only really to John and London. Then again, John was also sure that the lead weight in his stomach had put on a few pounds. Under the table, he clenched his right hand into a fist, and said nothing. 

Sherlock was the one to break the silence first. “If it was not for the fact that’d you’d just had us sign the Official Secrets Act,” he said slowly. “I would accuse you of bringing us all here as a joke. I still may.”

“I definitely am.” Greg said, standing up, clearly disgusted. “Sally and I have actual work to do. If this is going to be a sham emergency meeting, I’m gone.” Sally stood up as well.

Mycroft sighed. “I believe that next to the body there was found a stick, which, despite the fact that it was snapped in half, had the appearance of having been hollowed out, and materials placed within? It appeared, once your forensic investigators fished it out of the fountain and pieced it back together, to have been well crafted into the shape of a wand. Which, incidentally, it was. It belonged to the unfortunate floater. His name -  do sit down Detective Inspector - was Calix Lucien. He was, quite honestly, a wizard, and was able to use what we would consider magic.”

In the back of his mind, London was showing John pictures of Calix Lucien, a series that ended in a man floating face up in the Trafalgar Square fountain. John knew the face, not well, but he knew it. _I don’t like it when you leave._ London was almost trying to tell him, sulkily. _This could be you, somewhere else. Anywhere else._ There was almost a flash of heat, an impression of sand. _I took a bit of stone with me. Both times._ John replied. _You knew where I was, and I was safe. That’s what we agreed on._ London still didn’t approve, but acquiesced. Then again, John hadn’t really been safe the second time he'd left London, not in Afghanistan.

Greg and Sally slowly lowered themselves back into their seats, looking at one another. “I don’t believe this.” Greg stated. “But I’m listening.”

“We never mentioned the - wand.” Sally said. “Not in our reports yet, not in the press either.”

Mycroft smirked. “I am not the press. Nor will the press find out.”

“Explain.” Sherlock said slowly, trying to figure out his brother's motivations. “Why are you telling us this now?”

“The document that you all just signed,” Mycroft began. “Was not simply the the Official Secrets Act. A portion of it was another document known only as the Statute of Secrecy. You may take back the form to read it over, if you wish to be fully certain that I am not, in fact, joking. The Statute, in it’s entirety, outlines simply that none of you are allowed to speak of anything I tell you about magic, or anything do with wizards at all, unless it is amongst yourselves and other members of the general public who are also, so to speak “in the know”. I give you this warning because if you break the Statute in any way, you will not be sent to a normal prison. Rather, the wizards will come for you, and their prisons - and they do have their own - are, I have been told, much less forgiving than ours. My hands will be entirely tied.”

That was incorrect, John thought, but didn’t actually say aloud. If a wizard broke the Statute, (unless the person in question was a family member, or was in immediate danger and needed to be told about magic and the magical world to survive) then they would be sent to Azkaban (which was apparently Dementor-free nowadays). Muggles were usually just Obliviated.

No one said anything, so Mycroft continued. “The Wizarding world has existed alongside our rather more mundane world - their word for it, I’m afraid, don’t scowl so Sherlock - since the early days of settlement in the British Isles. It has its own government, banking system, currency, schooling, police force, and even nature preserves. The Wizarding government, like our own, is based in London, and is called the Ministry of Magic. They do not answer to our Parliament, but to their own version, known as the Wizengamot. They are, as I said, quite real. I have met more than a few witches and wizards myself.” Mycroft paused, mentally thinking of a man he’d met, but could not actually remember the face of. “The man in the fountain was brought to my attention this morning, as I am currently the governmental liaison between our government and the Wizarding government. I have been fulfilling this role for nearly twenty years. The man in the fountain, as I have said, is named Calix Lucien. He is one of the potential heirs to a hereditary seat on the Wizengamot. I am telling you this now, because when Lucien’s death became known to the wizards they felt that they needed to keep the investigation ‘in house’, as it were.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Lestrade snapped.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at the outburst.

“We might not have magic, but we’re damn good at what we do!” Lestrade said. “I want back in! If this bloke’s killer dropped him in Trafalgar Square, it’s not just wizard territory, it’s ours as well. What happens if the killer isn’t magical - fucking bollocks, I can’t believe I’m saying magic like it’s a real -” he paused, and then changed what he was going to say. “If this man’s killer is someone magical, fine. I want to know where they’re going while they’re hunting him or her down. They can’t just run over London like they own the damn city. If not, I want someone who’s not magical involved. If the killer isn’t magic, then they deserve to have other non-magic people involved.” He folded his arms over his chest. “Fuck. You know what? I want proof of magic. Before we get into this, and I’m not saying I believe you, but I want more proof than what’s on that bit of paper.” He nodded in the direction of the folder with the copies of the Statute of Secrecy.

Sally, who had been uncharacteristically silent, spoke up. “What about the dockworker?” All eyes turned to her. “Autopsy said that he was killed by means - he couldn’t have been killed by a conventional weapon. If he was killed by the same exact weapon than this Calix Lucien, wouldn’t it be possible that he was killed with magic?”

Lestrade turned in his seat to look at her more fully.

“Look, I’m just saying, if they were killed by the same means? It’s likely. The difference between this Lucien bloke, and the dockworker? The dockworker isn’t a wizard. So, what, they don’t give a shit about what happens to the regular human beings?”

John twitched internally. She was right about the Wizarding world. But then, Muggles did the same thing on a daily basis within their own society, so no one could really point fingers. Even so, he couldn’t deny it. Sally made an excellent point.

“If the wizards think that they’re going to shove us out of this, you can go buzz off and tell whatever contacts you’ve got with them that we’re not having it.” Mycroft looked amused. John doubted that he’d been told to ‘buzz off’ by anyone in years, if ever. “Whatever this killer is, he’s not just targeting wizards. He’s been targeting non-magicals first. Could be that we’re just easy pickings, or it’s something worse.”

Greg took in a sharp breath. “Oh. _Right_. Sally, that’s _good_.”

“He’s gone from killing a dockworker to a prominent member of - dare I say it - wizarding society in _days_. That’s not simple escalation. That means this bloke, if it is a bloke, can move easily between both worlds and can hide in them, which means that he’s going to be harder to find. Not only that, but he’s moving with purpose. The wizarding police can’t ignore us. They need us on this.” She finished.

Sherlock was nodding in agreement. “The killing of the dockworker and a prominent member of a society - while we do not yet know the link, there has to be one. There are possibilities in that. Hundreds of them.” He looked at Mycroft. “You’ve realized that, or you wouldn’t be here.”

“Precisely.” Mycroft said.

“What about the bodies in the morgue?” John asked, surprising himself. “Can we put them side by side? Compare the two?”

Mycroft shook his head. “Unfortunately, I believe that the wizarding police have already taken them.” Greg swore.

“I will make a case to the Ministry of Magic and to the Auror Department for your continued involvement on the case.” Mycroft said. “Aurors being the name for the wizarding police. If I had not had you sign the Statute you would have likely met them yourselves, though you would have not remembered it.”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock asked.

“How do you think that wizards have been living alongside the rest of us for so long and maintained their secrecy?” Mycroft asked back. “Unlike the rest of humanity, wizards have perfected the art of wiping one’s memories of specific events.”

“You’re fucking joking. Please, tell me you are fucking joking.” Greg asked, incensed.

“Their police are licensed to do that?” Sally said, over Greg, and there was something in her voice that made even John turn to look at her.

“Sally?” John asked warily. He’d used Obliviation before. He hadn’t really thought about. He guiltily found himself trying not to look in Mycroft’s direction.

“We’ve all been, Greg, Sherlock, John, me, we’ve been investigating crimes for years.” She said slowly. “What are the chances, in that time, we’ve stumbled onto things - wizard things - and been...wiped?”

Everyone froze. Sherlock, who had been internally postulating on the sheer mental logistics of Obliviation, looked at his brother in alarm. Mycroft sighed. “It’s entirely likely that you have been, at some point.”

Greg exploded. There were no words out of him, just an angry, furious snarl, and he was up from the table and into the living room, where he could be heard throwing pillows about.

Sherlock’s own reaction was much more muted, but anyone who knew Sherlock could see the impending rant building. His nostrils had flared, his lips thinned out, and he was clenching his hands together. “You knew about this? And you didn’t warn me?”

“I’m not infallible, Sherlock.” Mycroft said, somewhat wearily. “I don’t know if you’ve been Obliviated, any more than I know that Sally or Greg or John have been. As it is.” Mycroft said. “I have been Obliviated myself, on occasion. Though, at least I was allowed to remember agreeing to it.”

Sherlock made an abortive nose. “You? You would allow yourself to...forget? Willingly?”

“All in the course of duty.” Mycroft said. Internally, he was thinking of the Master of London.

Sally snorted at that. “Brilliant. That helps loads.” She looked calm, but it was almost guaranteed that she was anything but calm, beneath the surface.  

John, as possibly the only person in the room who had (to his certainty) never been Obliviated, was troubled on his friends behalf.

“Who are these, Aurors, then?” Greg asked. He’d come back into the kitchen, cradling a severely mashed pillow that looked as if it was going to be mashed a bit more in the near future.

“They, as I said, are the wizarding police force.” Mycroft replied. “They investigate crimes stretching from murder to more...more magically involved crimes, such as illegal dragon breeding.”

Everyone stopped, again, at that, and stared.

“Dragons?” Sherlock asked mildly. John could have grinned. Sherlock’s tone might have been mild, but oh, Sherlock was probably aching to go see one. Immediately. Even though he’d thought they were fiction a few milliseconds prior.

“You,” Mycroft said darkly to his brother, “are to stay at least a mile away from one at all times. At the very least.”

“But there _are_ dragons?” Sherlock asked, ignoring the command.

John spoke up. “I think we’re getting off topic. The Aurors?” There was an idea, a horrible, probably necessary plan building at the back of his mind. It was something that he’d never considered doing. And there were risks, serious risks - Mycroft was practically a risk himself, for various reasons. Frank would probably kill him for doing it. In the back of his mind, London was realizing what he was considering, and was whispering back both trepidation and agreement (and even a bit of excitement). It was also telling him that if things went badly - Sherlock, Greg or Sally hating him, Mycroft wanting to pick his brain -  London would take care of him. John wasn’t going to touch _how_ London was going to take care of him with a ten foot pole, but he did appreciate the sentiment, and told London so.

It was a valid fear that his friends might not speak to him ever again. It happened, sometimes, when people did what John was likely about to do. If it did happen, then John would have to return to the Wizarding world full time, which sworn the day he’d left he would never do.

Greg nodded. “How do we convince them?”

“As I said,” Mycroft sat up in his chair. “I will speak to the Ministry of Magic and the head of the Auror Department.”

_Oh goody._ John thought. _Potter is going to love this._

“They will put up a fuss, but I will suggest that a liaison, preferably a witch or wizard who knows something of the non-magical world, is allowed to show you around their world for the investigation, and you will show them around this one. It can even be an ordinary wizard, just so long as they have some connection to both worlds.”

Sherlock balked. “What, so they can lead us by the nose?”

“Why isn’t there already a liaison?” Sally asked, outraged. “Then they wouldn’t have to do any mind-wiping! For goodness sake, I don't want my mind tampered with any more than it already might have been!”

Sherlock and Sally bombarded Mycroft with questions. The government official looked as if he was developing a headache. Greg sat silently, watching the exchange.

Something crystallized in John’s stomach, and suddenly he felt like he had nerves of steel. The words bubbled to his lips, and then came out. “Sherl-” He began what was probably the most terrifying confession of his life.

“Not now, John!” Sherlock snapped, not even looking in John's direction. 

“Look, I just wanted to-” John tried again, only to be cut off again. Greg shot him a sympathetic look.

“Not all wizards will welcome the idea of non-magicals in their world!” Mycroft tried to explain.

“I-” John began again.

“Well then, they’d better start getting used to the idea! Because we’re coming!” Greg retorted in response to Mycroft, his hands gripping the pillow in tight fists.

John realized that no one was paying any attention to him at all.

“Right.” He muttered under his breath. London watched eagerly with anticipation. John left the room, leaving the rest to their hopeless argument. When he came back, the argument had only gotten more heated. He stood by his chair, watching them, and none of them seemed to realize that he was even there.

John had had enough of being ignored. He threw what he’d carried from his bedroom onto the table.

The wand hit the table with a bang. It sparked, giving off orange fireworks that dissipated without burning anything. The bang startled the others, each of them throwing themselves away from whatever had caused the noise.

When it became obvious what was on the table, everyone looked at John. Sherlock and Mycroft from their seats, Greg and Sally from where they’d jumped up.

“John Watson. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Hufflepuff House, class of nineteen ninety seven.” John stated, having come to attention as he did so. It was rather like stating his name, rank, and serial number, after all.

There was a stunned silence. Sherlock was the one to break it. “What?!”

“I’m a wizard.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *History lesson for you all: John Watson’s father, Peter Watson, married a Muggle by the name of Abigail, making their children Half-bloods. While Peter was more immersed in the Wizarding side of things, it was Abigail who made fast friends with many of the parents of children who had turned out to be Muggleborns. It became rapidly clear to both that, while Abigail had been fortunate to have a wizard along the first time that she’d entered the Wizarding World - parents of Muggleborns, and the Muggleborns themselves, were clueless as to respond to it all - with none of it being their fault. How can one, after all, enter a new world that has a million different rules and customs, and be expected to blend in seamlessly? They found that there was no literature to guide them, and even the paltry pamphlets that were given to Muggleborn families by the Hogwarts officials who went to induct them into the Wizarding World were woefully out of date. And thus, the Muggleborn Network was born. Fully funded by the Watsons - and later assisted by members of the Network - The Muggleborn Network was set up to ease Muggleborns and their families into the Wizarding World. Twice a week, a newsletter would be sent out to Muggleborn families, detailing news from the Wizarding World - including the fluctuating exchange rate, and issues surrounding Hogwarts - including changes to supply lists, transcripts of Board meetings, and even Quidditch wins. Outreach also included a representative of the Network, who would go to each house of a Muggleborn family when they were initially told about the Wizarding World, and an office just outside the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron in London, where Muggleborns could go and ask questions, without having to go into the Wizarding World to do so. Later, a website www.mgttww.net, was created to allow greater distribution of information. They employed a large number of Squibs and Muggleborns, one of the few organizations in the Wizarding World, at the time, to do so.
> 
> Needless to say, that the group stood to better integrate Muggleborns into the Wizarding World made them a target of the Death Eaters. Peter and Abigail Watson were murdered in their home less than six months into the Second Wizarding War, their children, John Watson and Harriet Watson, barely escaped. In addition, the offices of the MuggleBorn Network were bombed, and their representatives hunted down. The Network itself however survived, going underground until the end of the War. Presently, the Muggleborn Network is led by a group of people, one of whom is Molly Hooper, who also updates some of the content the website on a daily basis. 
> 
> **I have no idea if this is true. Haven’t had time to contact a forensic anthropologist. I do know one, incidentally. 
> 
>  
> 
> ***I’ve always wanted to use this phrase in something. 
> 
> ǂWe're not entirely sure where John has gone either. If you see a little roving retired army doctor floating around the story ether, please tell him to report back. We need him.


	14. Magic, Marks and Rage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's revelation is discussed, Mycroft says some things he shouldn't, and Adam is the London Whisperer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Here’s the next chapter. If I don’t put another up before the holidays, Happy Holidays to you all, no matter what you celebrate! (And if you don’t celebrate anything around this time of year, I wish you all the best anyway!) Hope you enjoy the chapter. 
> 
> All the best, teacup_of_doom

* * *

 

The room seemed to explode from the shock. Greg moved from his position against the kitchen counter (where he and Sally had thrown themselves the minute John’s wand had sparked) and walked towards him.

“John, what the sodding fuck are you talking about?” Greg sputtered.

John breathed in. “I’m a wizard.” He said, more calmly than he felt. “Have been since I was about eleven.”

“That’s not possible.” Sherlock said from where he stood. “ _I would have noticed_.”

John shook his head. “No, you wouldn’t have, not necessarily. You wouldn’t have known what to look for. That, and I haven’t actually done magic for a while. A couple of years, if I’m going to be honest about it.” He was trying to keep his tone light, but it really wasn’t working.

“But.” Sherlock scowled. “You-”

“I’m a regular human being, Sherlock.” John said, his heart sinking into his stomach. “I’m not any different from you, or Sally, or Greg. I just come with a little bit of a hidden  surprise.” What he was really worried about was if Sherlock would kick him out of the flat for hiding his wizardry, or would he listen to reason?

Mycroft was the next speak, and he was the only member of the little collective in the kitchen who appeared relatively unperturbed by the revelation (which made sense, as he had had exposure to wizardry before). From his chair (now three feet from where the wand lay,  still sparking, on the tabletop), he leaned forward, his elbows coming to rest on the arms of his seat, as cool as if someone had simply announced that they’d solved England’s financial problems for the next hundred years (and John would have believed the other man to be capable of such calm collectedness, if he hadn’t seen Mycroft scoot backwards, eyes widened in momentary shock). Mycroft took one long, considering look at the former soldier in front of him, and said simply “that was _not_ in your file.”

(Inwardly, John remembered a younger Mycroft Holmes reacting similarly to John’s announcement the he was, in fact, the Master of London, and fought the urge to laugh.)

Sherlock’s gaze had mechanically moved from John’s face to Mycroft’s, with a distinct air of someone threatening disembowelment. When Mycroft ignored him, Sherlock’s gaze immediately went back to John.

John feigned ignorance. “Of course I have a file.” He muttered to no one in particular, pretending to not realize that he actually had a file. He knew the Ministry of Magic had one. “Well, no. It wouldn’t be.” He said to Mycroft. “We’re fairly good at hiding, as you’ve...apparently noticed?”

Mycroft settled back into his chair, his eyes boring holes into John, with a narrow glint that John suddenly didn’t like. “Of course.”

In the back of John’s mind, sensing what appeared to be a threat, London’s focus sharpened. John had to fight the urge not to glance at Greg (who must be so very angry at him now.) And at Sally who had - uncharacteristically - not yet said a word.

“You are a wizard.” Sherlock repeated flatly, and John realized that Sherlock must be trying to reconcile the new data. “You are a wizard. There is magic, a magic government, dragons, and you are a wizard. ”

John couldn’t help it, he chuckled as he realized that Sherlock’s askance expression was more disbelief in _John_ being a wizard than in the concept of wizards themselves. He repeated himself, just to let the statement sink in further. “Yes. Sherlock, I’m a wizard. This isn’t a prank.”

“Prove it.” Said Sally, suddenly, pushing off of the kitchen counter she’d ended up against. “No offense John, but we’ve known you how long? And suddenly you’re a wizard?”

“You want to see me do magic?” John asked, surprised. But then, perhaps he shouldn’t have been. It was a logical request, one most people probably made when they heard that magic was real. John picked up his wand from the center of the table, and saw Sherlock lean in slightly in apparent interest. “Ok. Why don’t I show you, and then I’ll answer any questions?”

Next to Sally, Greg nodded. “Yeah, ok.” The DI said, still in a bit of a stupor. He didn’t seem all that angry now, which was worrying - or good, John wasn’t sure.

“Then you can tell me where the dragons are?” Sherlock asked suddenly, hopefully. Mycroft stifled a moan of what sounded like dismay.

John - ignoring Sherlock - gripped his wand (english oak, dragon heartstring, ten and a half inches, slightly supple). Holding a wand felt so natural, like breathing. He’d missed using magic more than he’d care to admit. Doing things with London was much different from wand work. He paused, wand in hand. What did he want to show them?

Suddenly, John was inspired by the memory of his old Transfiguration professor* and he pointed his wand at the table, first making sure no one was touching it. He didn’t want any accidents. Luckily, with a certain level of experience you didn’t need incantations for Transfiguration, merely intent.

A moment later, a very large Landrace pig was standing in the kitchen, and after a moment of snuffling about, it stuck its snout into Mycroft’s unprotected lap. John could have laughed himself silly at the expression of horror on the other man’s face.  Sherlock looked as if he was torn between amazement (possibly for the first time ever), and inordinate glee at Mycroft’s predicament.

Greg and Sally stared at the scene with wide, open eyes and open, shocked mouths. John chuckled when Mycroft shot him an unamused glare. “Magic.” He said. “Transfiguration specifically. Turning one object into another, either in appearance or form. Or in this case.” He indicated the pig that had now transferred it’s attention to Mycroft’s shoes. “Both.”

“Turn the pig back into a table, please John.” Mycroft said, sounding somewhat strained.

John grinned at that, seriously considered not doing so -  and then relented. The pig, after getting curious with Mycroft’s lap again, was summarily returned to it’s original wooden state. “Do you want to see any more magic?” John asked Sally impishly, purposely avoiding Mycroft’s gaze. Sally, in lieu of answer, reached out and poked the tabletop. Twice.

"Yes." Sherlock replied instead, almost exactly at the same time as Mycroft let out an extremely strangled "no".

Greg, of the two representatives of the police force in the room, found his voice first. Naturally, he swore. "John, how -"

"It’s magic. We go to school to learn how to do things like Transfiguration safely. Loads of other things too. Just about anything is possible. Sometimes, unfortunately. "

Sherlock looked very, very - possibly dangerously- intrigued. "How do you become a wizard?" John knew that that tone of voice. It was the tone that Sherlock usually used when they were about to attempt something that usually nearly got John killed.

"You're born one." John said quickly, nipping the idea in the bud. Sherlock let out an annoyed huff. "Sorry. But it's the truth. You either are one, or you're not. You find out if you've got magic on your eleventh birthday.”

“Why eleven?” Greg asked. John remembered that Greg had a son about that age.

“It’s the year you start going to school for magic. The age limit is Ministry of Magic mandated. There’s probably a biological reason, or more likely a legal one, but I don’t know it. I’m a healer in the Muggle world, not in the Wizarding world.”

“Healer?” Sally asked. She’d put both palms face down on the table now, and was pushing on it, as if expecting it to turn back into the pig.

“Wizarding doctor.” John clarified. “I do know some healing spells, but I’m not exactly certified.” He looked about at all assembled. “Why don’t we talk about, erm, all of this?”

Once everyone was seated again, John felt more comfortable, though Mycroft hadn’t stopped staring at him, which was a little disconcerting. It was absolutely setting London on edge, which was, in turn, setting John a little on edge. Now though, John wasn’t quite sure where to begin.

“So...erm, I’m a wizard.” He said lamely. “Which means I can act as our liaison because I know about both worlds, if you want me to do so.”

“Pureblood, Muggleborn, or half-blood?” Mycroft asked suddenly.

John blinked in surprise. “Oh. Half-blood. My Dad was the wizard, my mum a Muggle.” 

“What does that mean?” Asked Sally. “Muggle?”

“Wizarding society is - well, used to be, at least - based on what kind of family you were from.” John tried to explain. “Half-bloods like me, we’re people who have one magical parent, and one non-magical - a muggle. Muggleborns are people who have never had any magic in their families that they know of, but are born wizards. Purebloods, erm, well, supposedly they are families who have never married Muggles - or had children with Muggles. They like to think they are ‘pure in magic’. Usually the families are old, aristocratic and commonly wealthy. Also used to be somewhat prejudiced against anyone with Muggle ancestry. Prejudices were supposed to be changing when I left, but I don’t know if they have. I haven’t been back in Wizarding London for a few years now.”

That seemed to pique Mycroft’s curiosity, but he didn’t say anything. John - and London - kept a close eye on him.

“If you have magic, you get a Hogwarts letter - if you live in the UK, anyway, it really depends on where you’re from, when you turn eleven.” John grinned. “It’s a big event, if you know about magic. I think I was awake from midnight on my birthday until I got it. If you’re a Muggle - well, I think someone once told me that they were really confused by the sodding owl tapping at their window.”

“Owl?” Sherlock inquired.

John winced. “Wizarding society...I don’t really know how to explain this other than that wizards are really not into technology as of yet. The community is somewhat closed off, which means that - despite the prevalence of technology and scientific advances - some wizards don’t even really know about electricity, or computers, or genetics.”

Sherlock looked appalled.

“So we send letters via owl.” John finished.

Greg was mouthing ‘owl mail’ to himself in disbelief. “Like pigeons?”

John laughed at that. “Yeah, like pigeons.”

“You don’t have an owl.” Sherlock pointed out, and then said. “They don’t know about _electricity_? What do you do when you need light?”

“Well, no.” John admitted. “We use magic to light things, and candles. It’s very eighteen hundreds. And I don’t have an owl because, being half-blood, we can get news that doesn’t involve owl post. Besides, you’d have noticed an owl bringing me letters all the time. People could always have sent me an owl anyway, but I think most got routed through Frank. The Army, when I was in Afghanistan, wouldn’t have been all that keen on it either. So I chose to give my owl to someone who needed one. Also, like I said, I haven’t been back to the wizarding world in a while. I don’t need one.”

Mycroft’s gaze had sharpened. John ignored it - London didn’t.

“Going back to schooling,” John said, trying to keep the conversation on track. “We go to school for seven years to learn how to use our magic. Seventeen is when you are legally considered an adult. You can either continue your studies, or you get a job.”

“What did you do?” Greg asked, interested.

John hesitated. “I was going to be a Healer. I wanted to be one, at least. But things happened and...it didn’t work out. Not in the Wizarding World, anyway. I left the wizarding world, joined the Army, which paid for me to go to Muggle medical school, and here I am.”

“What made you leave?” Sherlock asked. “If _I_ had magic, I wouldn’t leave.”

It could have been John’s imagination, but he thought Mycroft muttered something akin to “if you were a wizard, Britain would be in ruins by now.” Then again, Sally, who was closest to Mycroft, had to cover her mouth with a hand to hide her grin.

John grimaced. The one thing he didn’t want to talk about, and Sherlock had hit upon it at once. The way this case was going, it was likely that he would have had to talk about it eventually, he just hadn’t wanted to talk about it now. “There was a war.” John said quietly.”It was bad -very bad.”

“Hold on.” Greg said sharply. “A war? In England? Recently?!”

John nodded. “Yeah. There was fighting all over the UK.” He paused and then said. “Some of it, a lot of it, was centered in London. Some in Scotland too.”

Greg was silent for a moment. “How long ago?” He said finally.

John realized what the other man was thinking, but answered the question anyway. “The war ended about fifteen years ago.”

“John, I was fresh out of the academy about fifteen years ago.” Greg said in a low tone. “A beat copper. In London.”

John tensed. “Yes?”

“You’re trying to tell me that while I was out there, there was a war going on on in the middle of London and I didn’t see it.”

“You probably did.” John admitted. “But you probably didn’t realize that magic was involved. You could have seen a million of innocuous things, but if you didn't know you were looking for… you wouldn’t have known. There were big things too...they might have looked like bombings, or gas main explosions*. Or, like the dockworker’s case - unexplainable deaths.”

“Or Greg was Obliviated, and wouldn’t know if he’d encountered anything at all.” Sally remarked.

John winced. “Or you were Obliviated.” He agreed, somewhat apologetically. He made a mental note to have Alex go through the reports from his division and see how many coppers were reported Obliviated by the Warriors during the war. While he couldn’t account for Auror actions, he could see if his own people had done something specifically to Lestrade.

Greg was silent for a moment, and John could practically feel the anger simmering. Surprisingly, however, Greg didn’t touch on the Obliviation and changed the subject. “There were bombs. A series of them up and down the country. I remember that much. We were going off of our rockers trying to figure out what the fuck was going on. No one was taking responsibility for them. You’re telling me that some of them were magic related?”

“Yes.” John said. “More than a few probably. Wizards...we don’t get out into the Muggle world often, they probably didn’t even bother to think that they needed to take responsibility. As it would have broken the Ministry’s precious Statute, they probably wouldn’t have done so until the Wizarding World was completely under their thumbs. It didn’t matter anyway. The people being  targeted knew who was doing it, and that was enough.”

Greg was once again (more gently this time) mashing the pillow he’d been pulverising earlier. “I remember being on the sites of some of the bombings John - entire families, down to toddlers, dead. You’re trying to tell me that we couldn’t stop it? Because we’re not wizards?

John was silent for a moment. “There is absolutely nothing you could have done Greg, not against the people who were doing the attacking.” He hesitated. “Some of these wizards, they tortured, killed, completely without remorse. Anyone they considered beneath them was considered a waste of magical life. If you’d had encountered them, interfered with what they were doing in any way, Obliviaton was the least you could have come away with. I mean that.”

“Who were they? Sally asked. “The people doing the attacking?”

“Remember what I told you about the division of blood heritage in the wizarding world?” John said. “The divisions between the blood lines is - was - much more pronounced. With only a few exceptions, most pureblood families believe that they are superior to the rest of the population because they have been magical for centuries. They look down on half-bloods and Muggleborns. Especially Muggleborns. The prejudice got so bad that…” John tried to phrase it as encompassingly as he could. “Think World War Two levels of prejudice, with Muggleborns and non-conforming half-bloods forming a ‘underclass’ in Nazi Germany. These people had themselves a charismatic nutjob for a leader, wealth, and magically powerful people at their disposal. They were a powerhouse, and they were absolutely terrifying.”

“As I recall,” Mycroft said. “They managed to stage a coup - not without some bloodshed - of the Ministry of Magic.” He was still staring at John. “From that moment on…”

“Anyone with views in opposition to pureblood supremacy was a target.” John said. “Unless you joined them. And even then, if you weren’t a Pureblood, you weren’t safe.”

Sally made a noise. “How many dead?”

John gave a long exhalation, and - to the rest of those in the room - it was clearly painful for him to discuss. “I don’t know. No one really knows. People just vanished. Were there one day, gone the next. Some people escaped the country, and never came back because there was nothing left for them. Some thought that if they stayed put in their homes and tried not to attract any attention to themselves, they’d be ok. And some...some were nowhere near as lucky. There were places refugees could go - if you were lucky and got to one, you were somewhat ok. There were... the new regime in the Ministry, they sanctioned gangs called Snatchers. They were made up of criminals, psychopaths, people who were ok with harming innocents for money. The Snatcher’s job was to hunt people - Muggleborns, half-bloods, anyone who wasn’t playing by the regime’s rules, or was just unlucky enough to be walking by at the wrong time. Once the Snatchers got you, you ceased to exist. Bodies were found, sometimes. But mostly not. There are mass graves excavated every few years. We have no idea how many people were actually killed. It’s been fifteen years - and we’re still looking. All we do know for certain who was left when the dust settled.”

There was a pregnant silence.

“Which leads me to my next question, John.” Mycroft said, breaking the silence.”I know quite a bit about the Wizarding World. I am the current Muggle liaison with the Ministry of Magic. I held the post during the Second Voldemort War as well. Now, with that knowledge I can surmise that you were not, actually a member of the Order of the Phoenix. That list is, in fact, quite short. Which still leaves me several possibilities. You said that you are, in fact, a half-blood?”

“Yes.” John said, drawing the word out, unsure of where Mycroft was going with this. “I am. Like I said, Dad was a wizard, Mum a muggle.”

Mycroft smiled, his fingers tapping on the arm of his chair. “Yes. Now, at the time of the war, you would have been what, sixteen, nearly seventeen?”

“Around seventeen.” John said. “I was in my seventh year when… when it all went to hell.”

“Too young to have been in the Order, at any rate.” Mycroft said. “Now. As a half-blood, you would have been a target. That leaves two options. One more likely that the other. However, the fact that you have not actually been back to the Wizarding World in years makes me curious. Now, we both know that people who went on the run, and were chased by the Snatchers had a low rate of survival. And as you said people who didn’t join the corrupted ministry, and didn’t get killed, had to join.” Mycroft’s eyes drifted to where John’s left arm lay on the table.

A hot surge of anger flooded John. Mycroft was not actually seriously suggesting that he had been a Death Eater? It seemed implausible, and yet, he was - his eyes were fixed on John’s forearm. The anger within him seemed to double, triple, and John realized why. With every ounce of mental focus at his disposal, he reigned London in.

The city was furious. Behind John’s mental containment, the city raged in anger. The man was accusing its John. Its master, its friend. And the man, the small man who was so tiny compared to London’s sprawling mass, so insignificant, so temporary, had dared to suggest that John was something other than as good and loyal as Helga Hufflepuff had been. It screamed against John’s restrictions. This man would pay. It would _smite_ Mycroft Holmes, make him another smear against it’s stones to it be washed away with the rain like _nothing_ , and -

John gritted his teeth. He mentally yanked harder. There would be no smiting. There would be no killing of Mycroft Holmes. He prefered the other man _alive_ and _whole_. He could practically feel the stones of the city groan, shift in protest, concrete crack, as London fought for control, for the death of the tiny human that for some reason John wanted to continue breathing.

Several miles away, Frank Keane, in the middle of a Warriors meeting, was startled when one of the instruments on his desk - tuned specifically to John Watson - trembled and emitted sparks. His last words before he ran from the room, screaming orders for the Warriors to activate plan LBJW, were recorded as a mantra of “ohshit,ohshit,ohshit,ohshit”.

John, fighting for control, trying to remind his city that any harm to Mycroft _here_ would mean that John would get hurt too, managed to strangle out “what, exactly are you implying?

Greg and Sally, their copper’s instincts well honed to underlying dangers, felt the hair on the backs of their necks rise.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock, also sensing the undercurrent, turned to his brother.

Mycroft smiled wanly. “The inside of your left forearm, John. May I see it?”

John, for a split second, nearly lost control. Nearly let London have it’s way. Instead, the anger of London seeped into his veins and fueled his own fire. John shot from his seat, yanked his sweater and his shirt up so that his left arm was exposed, and slammed the back side of his hand onto the table with a force that made Sherlock jump. It was easy to ignore the pain that the action caused. “I am not a sodding _Death Eater_!” John snarled. “Does that satisfy your damn curiosity?” His voice turned mocking. “Does that prove that I’m not some _child murdering_ , _Muggle-baiting_ , _monster_?”

Mycroft seemed to realize that he had gone too far. He held up his hands in attempt to placate John. "John, I merely needed to be certain, I'm sorry."

" _They killed my parents_." John snarled again, and didn't seem to hear Sally's sharply drawn breath, or see Greg freeze. "They came to our _house_. They came for me and Harriet. We survived - barely. And that only because we got to some old family friends in time. I would _never_ have joined the Death Eaters."

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, but was stalled by the jarring sound of Sally and Greg's phones ringing simultaneously. The DI's scrambled to answer their phones. After a moment in which Sherlock scooted closer to his friend to try and calm him down, and Mycroft struggled to think of what to say, Sally put down her phone.

"We've got to go, there's been another body found - might be related to our case or not. We won't know until we get there. For now, John -" she said. "Right now, I'm nominating you as our liaison."

"Seconded." Greg said, putting his phone away. "John, I think we need to have a chat about all this - just the two of us. I'll text you and we'll go for a pint, yeah?"

"Yeah." John agreed hoarsely. London had started slacking it's attempts to slaughter Mycroft, but John was keeping his hold tight, just in case. As he did so, Sherlock rolled John's sleeve back down, tucking the shirt sleeve neatly under the sweater, and examined him was what might have been concern.

Sally and Greg stood, making their way to the door. Sally turned around. “John?” She seemed to be considering her words carefully. “I’m sorry, about-”

“S’ok.” John said, and for a moment was afraid he was slurring. “It was a long time ago.”

Sally nodded, and followed her boss down the stairs.

Mycroft meanwhile, got up from his seat and started forward towards John. Outwardly, John had no reaction, but inside his mind London heaved in fury and was trying to get John to push Mycroft away. "John." Mycroft said quietly. "I apologize. There was likely a better way to gain an idea of your allegiance. The only other group I thought that you might have joined was the Warriors. They were popular and took people of all ages as refugees. Once again, I apologize."

John nodded, anger coming under control since Mycroft did sound sincere. John took a deep breath. "I think I need to get out for a bit. Clear my head." He managed to choke out. " I'll be back for dinner, Sherlock."

"Of course." Sherlock muttered, now glaring daggers at his older brother.

John took his coat and fled the flat.

* * *

When John had left, Sherlock stood to face his brother. “Was that necessary?”

Mycroft sighed, the hand on his umbrella fidgeting. “Yes and no. I did need to know John’s allegiances. If he was that young during the war, there was always a chance that he could have been a Death Eater, a sympathizer, or even turned against his will." He held up his other hand to forestall Sherlock's protestations. "I had said there were two options, the Death Eaters were one. The other option, due to the rather prolific nature of the yellow and black scarves outside I suspected that he was a refugee in hiding with a group of people called the Warriors. I knew some of them." He stepped back. "I need to return to Whitehall, I believe I need to assess why John's magical upbringing slipped through the cracks. If John has done so, then I suspect that he is not the only one."

"Security threats, Mycroft?"

"Indeed." Mycroft said, also intending to look into the case file surrounding John's parent's deaths, and thinking of the mole in the police system that had allowed the Aurors to take the bodies of the first two murder victims.."Give my regards to John, and, Sherlock? I am capable of remorse, once in a while." With those words he left, giving off a small amount of barnyard scent in his wake.

Sherlock picked up Lestrade's abandoned pillow and strode back into the living room, throwing the pillow on the nearest available surface with a huff. He threw himself into his armchair and frowned. He would have some reorganization to do within his mind palace, that was certain. Wizards. How very interesting.

(If Mycroft was - until further notice - beset by irregular traffic patterns, near constant red lights, tripping up on seemingly nothing, and a water pipe break in his office, well, only London would be the wiser.)

* * *

The moment John set foot outside Baker Street, he nearly ran into a wide-eyed, breathless Frank Keane. "John?”

John looked at the man whom he’d left in command of the Warriors when he'd left London after the War. “Lo’ Frank.” He said shakily.

Frank reached out to grab John’s arm, thought better of it at the last second, and said “the monitoring device on my desk went off - I’ve got half the Warriors scrambling to get to the shelters. What’s going on?”

John shook his head. “Not here. I can’t...I can’t be here right now.”

Frank had experience in dealing with discombobulated, half-London, John Watson. “Ok.” Frank said, nodding, not taking his eyes off John. “Ok. We can do that.”

“Not out of London.” John said. “That’s really not a good idea right now.”

“We can do that too. What are your feelings on Apparition right now?”

John paused for a moment. “No.”

“Right.” Frank said. “Come on. I think I might know what can take your aggression off for a bit.”

* * *

By the time they made it to the Sett, John had come back to his own senses for a bit (he wouldn’t admit that he was feeling the rivers under London shift as he walked, or that the stones under their feet seemed to have some sort of aura to them, to anyone).

When he and Frank had walked in the door however, John was confronted by the sight of half of the Warrior’s command staff, and got a good look at what they were wearing. “I thought the idea was to help me feel less aggression. Not exacerbate it.” John said doubtfully.

Adam stepped over, and handed John a magically modified paintball gun. “Come on, soldier boy.” He grinned. “You know this helps you let off steam. Besides,” the intelligence officer grinned widely. “You have yet to beat me at this.”

John rolled his eyes. “We are not doing this. We’re not - I’m really not in the right mood right now.” He said darkly.

“We noticed,” said Mila Hooper dryly, from somewhere in the crowd of command staff.

Adam, instead, responded by putting his hand on the nearest wall. “Hello.” He said, not to John, but to the city of London. “Look I don’t know what’s going on just yet. But we need to  get John to calm down a bit, and him being less gloomy would probably do a bit of good and all. For everyone’s sake, please help me convince him this is a cracking idea. This’ll probably help. And it’s fun!” He wheedled.

London stirred with interest in John’s mind. John mentally sighed. The city and Adam had an ongoing rivalry. (Slytherins, John had thought some years ago, developed the strangest penchants for rivalries.)

“No.” John said, but with London prodding him (of course it agreed), he had no real conviction in his tone.

Adam grinned, knowing he’d won. “All of us against John.”

“What? You've got to be joking!” John protested, but he was checking the gun over as he did so.

“We don’t have an all-seeing city in our heads,” Adam quipped, his smile widening. “Yes - I mean you, precious.” He hadn’t yet taken his hand off the wall.

London practically squealed in excitement, and dropped it’s last attempts to attack Mycroft. It pinged at the back of John’s mind, as if asking ‘please’?

John sighed. “Ok. But Adam? You’re going to regret this. I mean that, if I lose control…”

“Got it covered.” Mila Hooper said from the back. She carried darts laced with heavy-duty sleeping potions for this reason. They’d added them to the standard Warrior’s Healer’s kit during the War.

John breathed out in relief. “Let’s do this.”

* * *

An hour later, Adam, the only one _no_ t covered in neon paint, sat as far as he could from the rest of the command staff, who had all sat on the floor in the back corner of the bar around John, who was leaning, exhausted, against the wall, a splash of neon green running down his face. London, in John’s head, was muttering in surprisingly amusing discontent, which at least had John smiling. There were alleyways around the Sett that would be multi-colored until the next rainstorm.

“You’re a pureblood, Adam. You’ve never even been in the Army. You shouldn’t be that good at a Muggle sport.” John said, breathless, to the laughter of the Warriors.

Adam grinned smugly. “Adam three, John/London zero. Sorry, better luck next time.”

John laughed. In John's head, London proverbially stuck it’s tongue out in Adam’s direction. John let his head fall back against the wall and sighed. None of the other Warriors said a thing. They knew John well enough not to interrupt him.

“The murders both the Met and the Aurors have been investigating, the ones that have brought Wizarding dead into the Muggle world?” John began. “The Muggle world is aware that something strange was going on. Because we now know that it is a cross-world case, they’ve brought Mycroft Holmes into it.”

The Warriors stirred, slightly unsettled. “He ended up telling Sherlock, Greg and Sally about the Wizarding World.” John continued.

Someone swore. Someone else whispered "aw no, not 'Crofty."

“Mycroft had them sign the Statute first.” John said. “They don’t need to be Obliviated. Turns out that when the bodies disappeared from the Muggle morgue, Mycroft went on the offensive. Instead of the Ministry taking over, he wants the Muggle world to have a stand in the investigation - and as far as I’m concerned, rightly so. He wanted to get the Ministry to give us a liaison.”

“How’d that go?” Adam asked.

“He hadn’t asked yet. He wanted to tell us about it first.” John said. “The others were fighting over the revelation of the Wizarding World. And I realized that they had a perfect liaison sitting in the room.”

Frank gave a low moan. “John, tell me you didn’t.”

“I told them I was a wizard.” John said. Several of the command staff also moaned and flopped against each other in mock disbelief. “I’m going to be the liaison.”

“Of course you did.” Frank took off his hat - which had somehow stayed on during the fight - and hid his face in it.

“And, how, exactly, is that going to not blow your cover as the Master?”

John huffed. “I have no idea. But I am going to preventively go to the Ministry. Explain what’s going on. Maybe Kingsley and Potter can keep their people’s reactions reigned in for the duration of the case. I am not going to count on it, but there’s always a hope that it’ll work.”

There was silence as everyone digested this.

“What caused today’s freakout Johnny?” Frank asked quietly.

“Mycroft was trying to figure out where I fit in with the War.” John explained. “He asked me to show my left inner forearm.”

The command staff degraded into outraged muttering. John was fine now, but agitating him wouldn't be good, so no one shouted. 

"Neither I nor London took that well." John added dryly. "Obviously."

"We could always rough him up a bit." Mila Hooper offered.

John took a moment to glance disbelieving at her. "Mila, you're a Healer, head of a St. Mungo's ward, head of the Warriors medical division, even. You’re actively suggesting we rough up the British government. _You_.”

Mila shrugged. "I'm a Hooper."

John acknowledged the terrifying nature of Hooper women with a nod (Molly was a prime example of the Hooper clan) and responded "we can't rough up Mycroft."

"He may find out who the Master is." Alex pointed out. "He's been looking for you all this time."

John sighed. "We'll come to that bridge when and if we ever need to cross it."

“More Obliviation?” Asked Frank. He’d done it to Mycroft more than once.

“No. It’s been over fifteen years since the war ended. There really isn’t a reason he shouldn’t know now. That being said, if he tries anything, we wipe him, and I go into hiding. Admittedly, we might have to bring Sherlock with us.”

“We don’t know what Mycroft wants with you.” Adam warned. “He might try what the Ministry did.”

“I know.” John said. “And if that happens, we’ll put plan 71B in action.”

“Agreed.” Said the command staff, as one.

There was a moment of calm stillness before John said. “I’m starving. Is the kitchen open?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	15. Chapter 15 Home Again, Home Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes home - back to the world he'd left fifteen years ago, and never intended to return to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Sorry, it’s been a while! I’ve been applying to grad schools, and working on another fic - All Things Old and New - but I thought I’d split this chapter up, and post something short. 
> 
> Also, if any of you are in the Boston area, and are going to Anime Boston, I’m going to be wandering around with laughing_phoenix. I will be dressed as Peggy Carter, and laughing_phoenix as fem!Phil Coulson. If you’re around, come and say hi! I would love to meet you!
> 
> Another note - I have a tumblr! http://teacup-ofdoom.tumblr.com/ 
> 
> All the best,
> 
> teacup

* * *

 

John had gone back to 221b the day he’d revealed himself to being a Wizard. He’d half-expected Sherlock to bombard him with questions the minute he walked in the door. Instead, he was half-relieved to find that Sherlock was asleep in his chair, cradling John’s laptop, and had only resorted to half-tossing John’s room over in order to find wizarding things he could examine. Luckily, he hadn’t found any. Notice-Me-Not charms were extraordinarily helpful.

He’d floated Sherlock to bed (and wouldn’t Sherlock be sorry to have missed that) and took to his own, after putting everything to rights.

The next morning, however, John knew he couldn’t avoid speaking to Sherlock. He’d half expected the other man to be lying in wait for him outside his bedroom door, ready to pelt John with questions the moment that he opened it, but was both surprised (and relieved), when he opened the door and the landing was Sherlock-free.

He was safe until he reached the flat’s common area. Sherlock was perched in his chair, John’s laptop flipped open, and facing the doorway. He was pretending not to notice John’s entrance. It was so obvious it was almost amusing. John rubbed his open palms on his jeans a bit nervously. “Morning, Sherlock.” John said, smiling awkwardly.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked up towards him. “Good morning.” He said, typing, eyes lingering on John for more than a moment.

John chuckled, more nervous. It was ridiculous, he’d survived the Wizarding War, and he was more nervous over Sherlock knowing that he was a wizard than he was at a full blown - Death Eater attack. “Tea?” He said, trying to assume a sense of normality.

“Please” Sherlock drawled, and then appeared to turn his forceful gaze back to the laptop.

John, still waiting for the other shoe to drop, nodded and went into the kitchen. He could practically feel Sherlock’s eyes on his back the entire way through his morning tea routine*. When he did turn around - using, as always, the mugs marked “[not for science](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1113084/chapters/8730955)**” with black Sharpie marker - a gift from Molly, who’d been tired of John bemoaning finding people’s fingers or viscous substances in their tea mugs - Sherlock wasn’t more than a hairs breadth from him. John reared backwards against the sink. “Dammit, Sherlock - don’t do that!” London snickered in the back of John’s head.

“Why was the pig so heavy?”

John stared, not sure he’d heard Sherlock correctly. “What?”

“A landrace pig has a weight, on average, of about three hundred pounds.” Sherlock recited - and now John knew what Sherlock had borrowed his laptop to look up. “Our kitchen table” he waved a hand at the table next to them. “Weighs considerably less. When you turned it into the pig, the table seemed to have gained several hundred pounds. How? It does against the laws of physics.”

John blinked, racking his brains to answer the surprising question. Finally, he shrugged. “I don’t know actually. We’re taught magical theory in school, not physics.”

Sherlock’s head tilted to look at John, as if working out a puzzle. “What do you mean?”

“We go to Hogwarts at eleven.” John tried to explain. “The Wizarding World - magic even - I think because so much of what we’re capable of is outside the normal realm of physics that we don’t learn it. At least there isn’t any emphasis on learning it. I had to take a basic physics course before I went into the army and medical school.”

Sherlock made a noise that sounded a little bit like disgust, reached out, and took the mugs from John’s grasp, pushing past John to set them on the counter. He turned back around, hands splayed wide. “Do something else.”

“Sorry?” John asked. He wanted the mugs back - one, he hadn’t had his tea yet, and two, they’d oddly felt a bit like armor.

“Do more magic!” Sherlock prodded.

John gave a half smile. “Oh, yeah, ok.” He didn’t move from his spot. “Can I have my tea beforehand?”

Sherlock breathed out an exaggerated sigh, retrieved a mug, and replaced it in John’s hands. “Drink.”

John took a sip, heading for the bread bin on the counter.

“Drink _faster_.” Sherlock commanded impatiently.

John took out his wand, which had been concealed in the sleeve of his jumper, and pointed it at Sherlock’s mug of tea. “Glacius” he intoned. A stream of icy-colored light hit Sherlock’s mug, and froze the liquid inside within seconds - and iced the mug to the counter with a thick coating. John put his wand away, turned to face Sherlock, eyebrows raised, and sipped his tea. “You should have drunk yours before it got cold.” He said mildly.

Sherlock made a sound that was somewhere between annoyance and glee, and bent to examine the mug, which was steaming with cold. “That, should not be possible, and yet…” Sherlock said, almost giddy. “How does that _work_?” He asked John.

John, having decided to be a bit contrary this morning, replied “magic” and hid his smile at Sherlock’s glare behind his own, hot mug.

Half an hour later, John slipped out of the flat and headed in the direction of Whitehall, and the Ministry of Magic. He’d chosen to get there around ten thirty in the morning, when most of the Ministry’s staff would be absorbed in morning work, and there wouldn’t be many people in the Atrium when he arrived. The forty five minute walk towards the center of London doing much to calm his nerves, if nothing else. London was whining that it could have gotten him to the Ministry faster, but John had been firm in that he wanted to do this legally - and not cause any unnecessary holes in the walls of the Ministry.

He’d already created a few of them, once upon a time.

The red phone box that was the Visitor’s Entrance to the Ministry of Magic looked as shabby as ever. As inconspicuously as he could, John entered the box and picked up the phone, dialing ‘62442’ at the sound of the tone. The phone rang, and then a woman’s voice sounded in his ear. “Welcome to the Ministry of Magic,” the voice said. “Please state your name, and the reason for your visit.”

“John Hamish Watson, meeting with the Minister of Magic and the Auror department.” John said into the receiver.

The receiver was silent for a moment, and then the voice came back. “Thank you. Please take your name badge from the slot below, and put it on, making sure that your name is clearly visible. Your wand should be checked in at the entrance to the Atrium. Thank you.”

John hung up the phone and reached for the white rectangular badge that had popped into existence below the telephone. It read:

John Hamish Watson  
Lord Hufflepuff  
Master of London  
  
Territory Negotiations

 

John glared at the name badge, annoyed. There were times he hated magic, and this would absolutely be one of them. So much for even attempting to go incognito. He sighed and pinned the name badge to his worn outer jacket. [John knew from past experience that the telephone box wouldn’t issue him a different badge, no matter how many times he asked](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1113084/chapters/10609881). Best to get it over with.

The magic of the telephone box only allowed the start of it’s descent into the underground offices of the Ministry of Magic when he pinned the badge to himself, and John oddly liked the sensation. It was helped by the odd feeling that he was coming home. London felt better when John was somewhere where it could wrap protective layers around him, if the need arose. It was for the same reason that the goblins and London got on so well. The goblins felt safe, cradled by London’s staunch presence.

Inside of John’s head, there was a wave of contentedness, almost a purr of it, that was immediately soothing. A caress of joy. John fought the urge to smile, failed for a moment, and sent a relaxed, happy, wave of emotion back to his city. This is why he liked being the Master, sometimes it was just because there was someone (thing?) that could give him that security, when no one else, not even Sherlock, could - and understood him just as well.

The telephone box reached the Atrium.

Back during the War, the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic had been tinted in greens, blacks and wood panelling. These days, the tiles took on a more subtle dark blue and off-white appearance, that must have been meant to emulate the Thames. In the right light, however, the blue could shift to red, yellow, and green, depending on the angle. It was a nice, but somewhat disorienting change. And immensely distracting.

John stepped out of the telephone box and turned towards the tiny kiosk where a young wizard was stationed to check the wands of visitors. John stepped up to the kiosk just as the previous visitor pocketed his receipt and walked away.

“Good morning sir!” The young wizard practically chirped. “May I see your name badge and your wand, please?”

John smiled. “Course.” He said, unclipped his name-badge from his jacket, and pulled his wand from his holster - all in movements that the young clerk could easily track, and were not meant to be threatening. John knew from past visits to the Ministry - at least a few of which were after the end of the War - that the person manning this desk was never actually a simple clerk, but a trainee Auror in disguise - one who was usually extremely proficient and subduing attackers. When he handed the badge and his wand over to the clerk, the younger man didn’t seem phased in the least - which was really good acting, John thought.

The clerk - still smiling placidly - took John’s wand from him respectfully and carefully, wrote down a description, wrote out a receipt, and only then took stock of the name and the titles written on the nametag. The clerk froze, and then jerked up to stare - open mouthed - at John. John rocked back and forth on his heels and tried to give the younger man an encouraging smile, but could tell almost immediately that the smile was a wan one. The clerk’s mouth snapped shut, and he moved to tear the receipt he’d just written in half.

“No, no! Don’t do that!” John said hurriedly, but the clerk had already ripped the receipt into shreds.

The clerk took John’s wand, dropped it gently into John’s outstretched palm, along with John’s name badge, and to all appearances, sat on his hands. He beamed up at a very flabbergasted John. “Welcome to the Ministry, sir.”

John stared for a moment, and then chuckled, tucking his wand back into it’s holster. “Erm...thank you…”

“Auror in Training Cubard.” The clerk said with an even bigger smile. “Sir.”

“Trainee Auror Cubard.” John repeated, shaking his head.

“Have a nice day, sir.” The clerk said, and then turned his attention to the next person in line.

“Thank you.” John managed. “I think - you too.” Still shaking his head, went up the first shallow bank of steps leading to the long Floo hallway that lead towards the Atrium.

He was lucky, at first. No one noticed him as he began walking through the depths of the Ministry - London practically humming about him, energy zipping, pooling, flowing around him. He could see little flickers of light out of the corner of his eye - something John was certain only he could see - as they flowed along the ceiling and the floors. Brightly colored, like sparks. His steps seemed to interrupt the flow, and he could see the magic - London’s magic - gather about him. If John hadn’t not been trying to call attention to himself, he might have lingered a little bit and watched the river-like flow of magic. This far underground - in London’s belly, if not it’s roots - it was mesmerizing.

How had he not noticed this last time?

John knew the answer to his own thought well. Last time he’d been here, the War had only just barely been won. The Warriors had still been counting up their losses, and John had sustained serious injuries of his own. When Kingsley had come calling, asking for assistance, the Warriors almost hadn’t let him go. London, just as exhausted, but pleased that John was back it’s boundaries, and not hundreds of miles away in some forsaken Scottish Castle - hadn’t had much vigor to do anything but stamp out Voldemort supporters at John’s request.

Now though, the city was languidly purring at the back of John’s mind - so much so that the golden feeling made it hard for John to think.

He’d made it into the Atrium proper. The last time John had been here, (the Ministry hadn’t been as bustling as it was now) employees were cramming the areas around the fountain - which was, admittedly, quite a bit different from when he’d last seen it.

Last time he’d seen the Magic is Might statue, he’d violently reduced it to rubble in a fit of anger.

Someone had put that rubble to good use. The rubble had been used to construct a haphazard collection of pillars - cracks covering every surface - shortest at the rim of the fountain and getting taller as they proceeded inwards, finally reaching somewhere just below the ceiling. Some had bowls attached to them, but most were left cut off, with jagged tops. The pillars were not truly horizontal, most leaned against each other crookedly, some intersecting, like blocks jumbled together by a careless child’s hand. Water, stemming from the highest pillars, flowed downward in jets and sprays and gushing torrents. In some places, water fell in curtains between gaps in the pillars, drawn there by the way the pillars lay ***.

John watched the fountain for a moment, struck by it. A new structure, built from the rubble of the old. Rather like the Wizarding World, if you thought about it.

It was only then that his luck ran out. While he’d been watching the fountain, a few of the wizards in the Atrium had noticed the man who’d come in without robes. One had gotten a decent look at John’s face, and had recognized him. John’s only warning was the sight of a brilliant purple robe out of the corner of his eye. He turned to see a cautious looking wizard - slightly taller than he was - with black hair and a goatee. The other wizard seemed to come to a conclusion at John’s questioning gaze, bowed (a little too showily for John’s taste), and said loudly enough that it echoed through the Atrium “My Lord Hufflepuff!”

John flinched as most of those assembled in the Atrium stopped what they were doing and looked in their direction. The only exceptions were the paper messenger airplanes that swooped about overhead. He fought to remain composed, even as whispers broke out, and the man in purple was looking at him appraisingly.

“Erm, good morning.” John said in reply. “You are - “

“Lord Graham Lise.” The purple robed man said smoothly. “I am a Minister of Magic in the Wizengamot. May I be the first to welcome you back to the Wizarding World, my Lord?”

“I’m not.” John said. He’d just realized that he’d drifted into politics. He hated politics with the same distrust and ill-will that Sherlock normally reserved for Tescos. All of the double meaning, and subtle questioning and machinations. He _hated_ it. It was half the reason he’d left the Wizarding World in the first place.

Lord Lise hadn’t approached John to actually welcome him back, he’d approached John to try and get on John’s good side, to gain influence by doing so, and to gauge what John was doing here.

“Sorry,” John continued. “I’m not back. Not really, I’m just...visiting some old friends.”

“Of course, My Lord.” Lise said lightly, but his eyes had drifted to John’s nametag and back up again. (John internally cursed the ‘territory negotiations’ label.) His smile was so fake that John wanted to back away slowly.

London wanted to smite, because it could - and John suddenly felt that perhaps he and London had some more aggression issues to work out. London, picking up on this, let out almost a huff - it was just trying to be _helpful_.

“May I ask-” Lord Lise began, only to be cut off by another voice calling across the Atrium.

“Lord Watson!”

John looked for the source of the voice, and spotted a familiar figure striding across the wide space, practical grey robes fluttering neatly behind him. The sight made John relax slightly.

“Percy.” He said, not entirely managing to keep the relief out of his voice. “Hello. Good to see you.”

Percy Weasley, a little older than the last time John had seen him, and perhaps a little more padded in the waistline, nodded at him. “Good morning to you as well. I was hoping to catch you in the arrivals hall, but I must have just missed you.”

John smiled, and it was more because of Percy’s lie than anything else. Percy had probably only been alerted to the fact that John was in the building a few minutes ago, and had been running about trying to forewarn the relevant powers that be, before coming to rescue John.

“Yes, probably. Sorry, I don’t have an owl at the moment, or I’d have warned you about my arrival time changing.” Only the second half of John’s comment was a lie.

“Shall we?” Percy asked, indicating with an outstretched arm, the nearest elevator.

“Yes, thanks.” John said, smiling at Lord Lise as we went past. “Nice to have met you, Lord Lise.”

“And you sir.” The Lord smiled back, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

When the elevator doors were shut, and they were out of sight of the mob in the Atrium, John let out a huff and sagged slightly against the wall.

“Thanks for that, Percy.”

The third oldest Weasley boy smiled, and the action made his face appear younger. “You are very welcome, Lord Watson.”

John groaned. “Don’t do that. I hate being called that.”

Percy chuckled. “What does bring you to the Ministry? It’s been...about fifteen years since you’ve last been here. Gave us all a shock in the outer office when the notification came through.”

John sighed and straightened up, running a hand through his short hair. “Something’s come up, and I’m afraid that it might mean working with the Auror Division.” He glanced at Percy. “I don’t know if you read the Muggle papers, but -”

Percy shook his head. “No, but I do hear things from other Warriors. You and this Sherlock Holmes working together?”

“Yeah.” John affirmed. “There’s a case - you probably know about it - dead wizards.”

“There was one in the Alley recently - a murder.” Percy said slowly.

“And, if you haven’t heard from the Auror’s office the details as of yet.” John added. “A Wizard was murdered and dropped into the Trafalgar Square fountain a few nights ago. Dressed in robes, his wand floating nearby.”

Percy clearly hadn’t heard, with the pallor he immediately developed.

“And there have been Muggle deaths, same method, and the Yard thinks that it’s the same killer.” John continued. “Sherlock is on the case, and the British government is already liaising with the Ministry.”

Percy understood at once. “The Minister and Auror Tonks are waiting for you in the Minister’s Office.” At John’s questioning gaze, Percy remarked. “We have a standing order that the head of the Auror Office and the Minister are on hand to greet you in the event that you come in.”

John raised an eyebrow. Percy allowed himself a small smile. “I believe Kingsley said you’d hate that - and that it is retaliation for something he would not disclose.”        

John groaned. Thankfully, the elevator doors opened just then so that John didn’t have to elaborate, revealing the red plush carpet and the dark mahogany panelling that were the trappings of the Minister of Magic’s outer office. Undersecretaries scurried about this way and that. To John’s relief, no one turned to look at him. Percy took the lead here, it was - though John was the Master of London, and the ruler of the very floorboards they crossed - Percy’s domain. The Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic passed through the crowed of his subordinates like a benevolent, cheerful wisp, John following in the swish of his robes.

Percy knocked on the simple wooden door that - while small - seemed to take up the entire far wall of the offices of the Undersecretary from it’s own presence alone. In keeping with the simplicity, the door was labeled with a simple brass plaque reading: Minister of Magic. “Sir.” Percy called through the door. “Your next appointment has arrived.”

John could practically _feel_ the defense wards seep away from the door at what must have been a fail-safe phrase, courtesy of London. (Or perhaps the fail-safe was Percy’s voice? His intonation? John wondered fleetingly, curious.)

The door was immediately pulled open, just as Percy stepped to the side to give John access to the entryway. In the doorway stood a wildly grinning Nymphadora Lupin. “Johnny!”

He hadn’t seen Nymphadora Lupin (nee Tonks) for fifteen years, the last time about a month before the War had come to a head, and the Final Battle. (There had really been two Battles that day, not one, and though the history books tended to give the Battle of Hogwarts more weight, the Battle for London had been just as brutal - albeit quicker.) They’d both grown, aged. John from the gangly eighteen year old he’d been at the end of the War, and Tonks into a stronger version of the already strong woman he’d known. He hadn’t seen much of her, afterwards. He’d known that she’d been injured, and that Remus Lupin had been among the casualties, and had been a few times to see her, even when there wasn't usually enough time to see anyone but his own Warriors. And then…

John had known that Bellatrix Lestrange had been out for her half-blood niece’s blood. Practically everyone had known. It was one thing to know it, and one thing to see it after it had healed. The left side of Nymphadora’s face was covered in deep scars. They led upwards into her hairline, and down her neck, and - there had to be more damage. The way that Nymphadora held herself told of other injuries, pain, and the injuries had  clearly not left her without some disability. She probably hadn’t done any hard fighting Auror work since the Battle. And her cane- the doctor within John wanted to set his old friend down and do a complete workup. He managed to smile instead. “Hello Nymphadora.” He frowned. “Er, sorry. T-”

Nymphadora had been observing him as much as he’d been doing to her. “It’s fine, Johnny.” She said softly. “You’re allowed to call me Nymphadora, remember?”

John felt as if he was seventeen all over again.

* * *

  
The last time Nymphadora had seen John Watson, the then teenager had been at the end of his metaphorical rope. The war had done a number on the both of them. She had vague recollections of seeing him - bruised, harried, and exhausted - next to her bed in St. Mungo’s in the weeks after the Final Battle. After that, she’d seen him rarely, as he, his Warriors, and the more able members of the Order of the Phoenix tried to hold the Wizarding World together. She’d had a long recovery - and while John stopped by when he could, there were demands being made of him almost all the time.

They were members of different factions during the War. The Order of the Phoenix and The Warriors hadn’t exactly been allies, but there had been a flow of information back and forth that had been useful to both groups. Tonks had been a natural choice to work with the Warriors in passing information because she’d known John in school, very briefly, true, but then she was six years older. They were Hufflepuffs, and that was what had mattered in the end. There was some sort of innate understanding among Hufflepuffs. You stood together. They’d become friends, somehow, amidst the chaos of the War. Good friends.

And then, a year after the Battle, John was gone. He’d walked away from the Wizarding World, and hadn’t planned on coming back.

He’d given no indication of his plans to anyone, except possibly the commanders of the Warriors, no warning to his friends. Tonks understood why, before even having read John’s letter to the Wizarding World in the Daily Prophet. Even so, it had hurt.

The man she’d last seen in nineteen ninety eight was present in the man standing before her, somewhere. John had been worn down then. The John Watson standing in front of Nymphadora bore signs of a life had had been just as trying as the one he’d left behind. The lines around his eyes - already growing prominent at the age of seventeen - were deeper, his smile less bright (but he had just walked into the Ministry after swearing he’d never set foot there again). His preference for Weasley family-like sweaters hadn’t changed, which was a little sweet, if nothing else. But her trained Auror eyes saw the baring of a soldier (a captain in the Army, the Muggle papers had said) under the lumpy sweater, and the unconscious way that John looked around the room for all of the obvious entries and exits to the room. He was nervous in ways he shouldn’t have been, not here, not at the heart of the world he’d helped save.

Nymphadora, within the split second of opening the door and using his nickname, missed the boy who’d made her laugh in spite of Remus’ death.

And then John had stumbled over her name, and Nymphadora knew he was feeling the same way she was.

“I know.” John told her, with a sheepish smile. “I just. I wasn’t sure, really, if you’d still allow me to call you that.” The 'because I left without telling you' was left unsaid.

Tonks narrowed her eyes and poked John in his middle. His stomach was soft, not much, but some. Someone was doing a good job of fattening John up. Wait until Molly Weasley got ahold of him. “I would be horribly insulted if you didn’t.” She told him tartly.

That got her a full blown John Watson grin. Goodness, the man was still somehow adorable, despite how powerful he was magically.

“Get in, you horrible excuse for a surprise visitor.” She took his arm and dragged him into the Minister’s office. “I want to know everything. Every last detail of the last fifteen years.”

John’s mouth twisted. “I’m not so sure you want that.” He said wryly.

“Oh but we do.” Kingsley’s deep voice rang out from behind them, as the door to his office swung shut. “I will even provide whiskey, if it loosens your tongue somewhat.”

John blinked at the form of the Minister of Magic, who was beaming at the sight of John, coming around his desk and towards him. “Firewhisky?” John asked hopefully.

Kingsley laughed, and put his hands on John’s shoulder. Nymphadora could see the other man’s wet eyes and sad smile. “Absolutely.” Kingsley said softly. “It is so very good to see you.”

John gulped, a bit teary-eyed himself, and replied just as softly. “You too.”

“Come,” Kingsley pulled gently, guiding John to a small set of chairs and a table - not to the Minister’s desk, Nymphadora following behind.

  
**End Chapter 15 Part 1**

*For description, see chapter 8.

** laughing_phoenix and I went last week to make "not for science" and "for science" mugs. I'll see if I can post a picture.

***The composition of the statue is entirely due to laughing_phoenix, who gave me the idea. 

 

 


	16. Reconnecting with the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is not coming back to the Wizarding World. He's not! Would everyone please stop giving him that look?
> 
> In which contingency plans are discussed, John tells his friends about his life since leaving the Wizarding World, and Harry Potter is a little shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Laughing_Phoenix (the wonderful brainstormer and beta she is), demands that I tell you all the good news. 
> 
> Drum roll please....
> 
> I AM MOVING TO LONDON!!!
> 
> I've been accepted to school there! (Same school that John, in BBC Sherlock, went to. Brownie points if you can tell me which school that was!)

* * *

 

The Minister’s office had changed from when Kingsley had taken it over, after the War. The style, then, had been done to suit a Death Eater’s preferences: dark stone walls and a lack of windows. This room now was bright - large faux windows projecting a cheery view of the streets of Whitehall between wine colored curtains. There were even sunbeams streaming in, lighting up the eggshell white carpet, and making the warm colored wooden furniture glow. It looked more like a Muggle official’s office than a Wizarding one, or possibly a hotel lobby. The carpeting was plush, the decor picked for comfort rather than opulence (which is what Wizards usually preferred).

There were three chairs; John took the one directly opposite the others, momentarily distracted by the way that the fake sunlight caught the glass table top between them as Kingsley went to a small sideboard to fish out three glasses and a decanter.

“I like this.” John said suddenly, surprising even himself. “Your office, I mean, it’s...not what I expected.”

Kingsley chuckled, turning back around and crossing the room to place his bounty on the table between John and Nymphadora. “It puts the British Prime Minister at ease.” He said. “And I have come to like it as well. Not as stuffy as other offices.”

“You should see mine.” Nymphadora said with a smile. “Size of a shoebox, and no windows.”

Kingsley laughed at that. “She’s lying.” He said to John. “She has windows.”

“But it’s still the size of a shoebox.” John guessed, and Nymphadora grinned at him, passing John a now-filled glass.

The sunlight shone through the red-brown color of the Firewhisky, making it glow like an ember. Absently, John swirled the glass around before raising it to his lips, unsure of where to begin. He  knew why he’d come, what he had to say, and the necessity of it, but nostalgia had hit him harder than he thought it would, and it kept the words out of his mouth. The words were trapped somewhere between his brain and his throat, and it was unbearable just how much John wanted to just sit there, basking in fake sunlight below London with friends he had left behind. Now, of course, he wondered if he had done harm by doing so. Even if he had, they were here, and actually pleased to see him. A heavy weight, made of fondness and pain, felt as if it had formed in his chest, and it was a feeling that he hadn’t felt since Frank had come barreling into 221b the night after Sherlock’s apparent funeral.

John lowered his glass and took a deep sigh that somehow felt more fulfilling than it should. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but nothing came, and so he shut his mouth again.

Suddenly, the weight of the last fifteen years was pressing down on his shoulders. John had thought that he’d stopped _missing_ anything to do with the Wizarding World, but the walk from the Atrium had proved him wrong, naturally. John hadn’t cried since the War, and he suddenly felt the need to do so. The room was too bright, the whole thing felt like a _dream_ , and...

Nymphadora - wonderful, amazing, Nymphadora - provided the catalyst that jump started the conversation. “So, Johnny.” She said with a grin, knocking back the firewhisky. “Do I get to collect interest on the seven galleons I lent you on Halloween fifteen years ago?”

John glared, while Kingsley grinned into his own glass. “You know, I’m fairly certain I lent _you_ those seven _knuts_ , and I should be asking you that question.”

Nymphadora snickered. “Tell you what, why don’t we forget the whole thing, on the condition that you answer some questions from us, and tell us why you’ve come back?”

John huffed, a softer smile drifting over his features. He slid further back in the chair, so that his feet stuck out further and took a deep breath. “Ok.” He said, more calmly than he felt he should be. “Sounds good to me.”

“Where did you go?” Kingsley asked the first question. “What have you been doing all of this time?” There wasn’t a hint of accusation in Kingsley’s tone, but John’s mind supplied it for him, and it made John somewhat uncomfortable. The Minister of Magic was starting with the big questions.

John didn’t want to start with the case, or anything to do with Sherlock really. Something told him that it would be the wrong tactic, if he seemed to brush aside the mass of the last fifteen years. And, though it was a bit irrational, a large part of him wanted to draw out his visit as much as he could.

“The morning my letter telling the Wizarding World that we were leaving was printed in the Prophet,” John said finally, taking a fortifying sip of Firewhiskey. “We went to Harriet’s godmother’s place. It was well out of London, and she was a Muggle. Completely below the radar. Harriet needed someone to take care of her, someone who wasn’t, well...me.” Nymphadora winced in sympathy, though Kingsley’s brow furrowed in some confusion.

Not many knew it, but when John had - for the lack of a better phrase for it -  come into his powers as the Master of London, he had gained them in a brutal and - for the Death Eaters - deadly fashion. Harriet Watson, having just seen her parents murdered and been chased for miles across England by their murderers, not even old enough yet to get her Hogwarts letter, had been present for the event.

The effect on Harriet had been a vehement, violent rejection of her own magic, and to a degree, of John himself.

Their relationship had gotten much better over the years, Harriet even starting to reclaim her magical ability, but it had taken a great deal of effort from both sides.

“I could have taken money from the Master vaults.” John said. “Sometimes I think I should have. But I didn’t want to. It felt too much like...having left, but using the Wizarding World as a crutch. As if, the more I used it, the more I chanced falling back into the Wizarding World.”

At Kingsley’s grimace, John knew that the older man conceded John’s point, but wasn’t happy with the fact of it being likely true.

“So we didn’t have a lot. I took odd jobs at first, but I wasn’t happy. And then...I saw a flyer for the Muggle army.”

Kingsley sat straighter in his chair, placing his whiskey glass on the table. Nymphadora simply nodded - she’d known then, John surmised.

“When I’d been at Hogwarts,” John said pensively, drawing out how to break this to Kingsley. “Professor Sprout had been mentoring me, helping me get ready to maybe get a spot at the Saint Mungo’s training school for Healers. Since that wasn’t an option anymore…” John drank more Firewhiskey. “The flyer was offering a full ride to medical school, if I qualified, and I’d only have to serve a few years in the Muggle army in payment.”

Kingsley swore under his breath. “Merlin, we chased you from one life as a soldier to another. _John_ -“

“You didn’t do that.” John said sternly. “The idiots who had decided that I was going to be the next Dumbledore did.” He sighed. “But yes, I joined the army, and went to medical school. I’m a fully fledged Muggle medical Doctor, and when I was in the army, I achieved the rank of Captain, before I was discharged.”

“Congrats.” Nymphadora said, toasting him with her glass.

John chuckled. “Thanks. I stayed in the army...well, a bit longer than I had planned to really. I actually found that I liked the army, so I kept signing a contract to keep me in.”

“What changed?” Nymphadora asked. “The Muggles newspapers were vague about it.”

John bit his lip nervously. “Got shot.” He said.

Kingsley made an agitated noise, then downed his glass in one gulp and poured himself another. Nymphadora looked too stunned to do the same - yet.

“Sorry.” Kingsley said roughly. “Run that by me again?”

“Got shot.” John repeated. He didn’t dare move towards the carafe.

“How badly?” Nymphadora demanded crossly.

John grimaced. “Bad enough to get me an honorable discharge, a ride home, and to never be able to perform surgery again?”

Kingsley reached for the carafe once more.

“I’m not sure we want a drunk Minister of Magic right now?” John tentatively pointed out.

“Yes. Yes we do.” Kingsley replied. “And I have sobering potions in my desk. Do you have any idea the political morass, or even the physical damage London would have caused had you been killed - you’ve just...no, you know what, I don’t care right now. _Merlin_ , John.”

John winced. London would have probably been so upset that the city’s structural integrity would have been threatened.

“You.” Nymphadora jabbed a finger in John’s direction, “are going to Saint Mungo’s when we’re done here.”

“No I’m not.” John said, even though it was a good idea. “I caused enough of a disturbance coming _here_. I don’t want the Wizarding World as a whole knowing I got shot.”

“I’ll get someone in then. Someone I can trust.” Nymphadora growled back. “Someone who won’t blab, and you’ll see them _before you leave today_ , am I clear Johnny?”

John didn’t want to argue the point, and sighed. “Fine. But if I see it in the Daily Prophet…”

“You won’t.” Kingsley said dangerously. “Or we’ll know why.”

John blinked at the strong front the pair was presenting and - _he wasn’t having warm, happy feelings in his chest, damn it_. “Right.” He said, breathing in.

“Wait.” Nymphadora said. “We’d have known if you’d been shot in London. London would have been...upset.” She frowned, puzzling it out. “Where were you, when you were shot, exactly?”

“Afghanistan.” John said succinctly. More details than that and he was likely never to see the Muggle world again.

“Why did London even allow you to go?” Kingsley asked in confusion.

In the back of John’s mind, he felt London poke at him with various feelings of “because we’re both idiots” and “I told you not to go”, and “I should have kept you here”. John poked the arm of his chair several times to tell London that “yes, I heard” and “yes, you were right, but I did it anyway”, without giving what he was doing away to the two others in the room. “London didn’t, at first.” John admitted. “London was a bit...angry with me.”

That was an understatement, and just how much of one John would never reveal to even Frank.

“I was allowed to go, but only if I kept a bit of old London stone on me at all times.” John said. “A stone from deep down, from the Thames. I kept it on a strip of leather about my neck. Got ribbed for it a bit, but…”

“Like a tracker.” Nymphadora said in understanding. “Monitoring your location, vitals?”

“Yes.” John agreed. It was the closest thing to what the stone had been. He’d nearly lost it, somewhere in the desert, when the rest of his squad had torn off his clothes to get to his shoulder. London’s displeasure upon John’s return had been muted only by the fact that he was still in recovery. The only reason he wasn’t wearing it now was that he was in London itself. The few trips outside of London he’d made since he got back, he’d been forced to take the stone with him.

Nymphadora nodded in understanding. “So you came back to London.”

“Right.” John replied. “And basically...right back where I started, in the same situation in which I started - no idea what to do with myself. I had thought of getting a job as a GP - general practitioner, basic care doctor.” John clarified for Kingsley. “More importantly though, I needed somewhere to live. I’d been living in Army barracks, and they were set to kick me to the curb soon.”

John rubbed his forehead. “I went for a walk one day, and ended up bumping into an old friend from St. Bart’s - one of the medical schools that collaborates with the one I went to. My need for a flat came up, and he introduced me to the man I’m living with now - Sherlock Holmes.”

Nymphadora nodded - John was guessing she’d seen the Muggle papers. Kingsley though, asked “any relation to the Muggle government’s liaison, Mycroft Holmes?”

John nodded. “His brother, and just as brilliant. Instead of government though, Sherlock went into crime solving. I did eventually get a job as a GP, but when i’m not there, I help Sherlock with his cases.”

“They’ve been in the Muggle papers.” Nymphadora said slowly, trying to remember how many. “I started reading Muggle papers because of Dad, and it’s a habit I never managed to break, even after we’d found out he’d been killed. Actually, you’ve been in them too - you have a…”

“Blog.” John said with a smile. “It’s one of the reasons Sherlock became famous. It’s like writing a book, but one that everyone can see in real-time. I wrote about his cases, and his - our - caseload exploded.”

Nymphadora snickered. ”Poor John, you’re famous in two worlds. Exactly what you didn’t want!”

John rolled his eyes and slid further down in his chair. “I didn’t mean for it to happen!” He cried in exasperation. “It just _does_!”

Kingsley laughed as well this time.

When they’d calmed down, John continued. “I’ve been working with Sherlock for years now. Only… Well, there was a bit of a three year gap in which I’d been lied to and told he’d died.”

Kingsley raised his eyebrow.

“Clearly, he isn’t dead, because he came back.” John tried to explain, a bit unsuccessfully.

“Is this why Frank and your Warriors have been so active in the Muggle world?” Kingsley asked. “I’d heard that they were - and that you were involved in some capacity.”

“When Sherlock faked his suicide, I was...I was watching.” John said with a frown and brushed the memory away. “I wasn’t in a good place afterwards. Frank found me the same night, after the police had let me be.” He let out a shaky breath. “Without Frank and the Warriors showing up…” He let the admission hang, not wanting to admit to anything, at the very least the resurgence of his depression. The first time since he’d been discharged from the Army, before he’d met Sherlock and gotten sucked into the cases. “They built up a campaign for Sherlock’s innocence in the Muggle world - there’d been a question of him being an actual genius detective, both in the media and at New Scotland Yard, because of a criminal mastermind who’d decided to trash Sherlock’s reputation.” John explained again. “At any rate, the Warriors created themselves a niche in the Muggle world - we’re a service organization, similar to the one we’ve got in the Wizarding World. The Warriors actually seem to like the mingling, at least.” John shrugged. “The Muggle police are really very OK with it. Even with the patrols. They even join in, on occasion.”

“I’ve got nothing but good reports from the Aurors.” Nymphadora added in support. “They actually think the intermix is good for the Warriors, and those involved.”

John agreed. “I think it is too. We get people from both worlds collaborating, and...I don’t know, the exchange of information and ideas - without breaking the Statute - well, it’s producing some really good things.” He grinned suddenly. “Magical paintball guns.”

“Erm, what?” Nymphadora asked.

John nearly cackled. “Muggle weapons modified to fire harmless paint projectiles that explode on impact, covering the target in paint. We use it as a training tool, or stress relief. You’d like them.”

Nymphadora’s mouth curled. “I’d have to see some in action.”

John’s grin grew wider. “Oh, we can arrange that.”

Kingsley coughed. “Before you two declare war on Diagon Alley, I think we should bring this back to topic.”

John wiggled in his seat. “Because I haven’t already declared war on the Alley in the past?” He stated with an air of innocence.

“Only once or twice.” Kingsley said dryly, rolling his eyes at the Master of London. “Usually with a bit more destruction in mind*. Now, before I lose the two of you completely to discussion of training methods, what brings you in, John?”

John sighed, his mood taking a turn for the serious. He would really have prefered to talk about paintball guns. “I wasn’t planning to come back, if I could help it.” He purposefully didn’t look at either of their faces as he said it. He wasn’t ashamed of them, or the Wizarding World, but his comment might have been taken that way. “You’ve heard that Calix Lucien is dead?” Both members of his audience nodded in affirmation.

“There was another body, wasn’t there?” Nymphadora asked. “A Muggle?”

“A dockworker.” John confirmed. “Both killed the same way, likely by a wizard. And Percy just told me about the murder in Diagon Alley. I’ll bet that killing was done in a similar manner.”

“You came because you were concerned over the deaths?” Nymphadora asked, slightly surprised.

“Not exactly.” John said. “I know that the common procedure is to send in a team of Aurors to quietly take over the investigation, and to Obliviate the Muggle investigative team, when cross world crimes are one-off happenings.”

Kingsley was nodding. “We were considering who to put on the task force when you arrived.”

“Sherlock was called by the Yard to help investigate the case, so I’m on it too.” John said, biting his lip. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, and don’t know if he did it to protect Sherlock or because he genuinely wants this, but Mycroft Holmes has decided that the Muggle world should be involved in the investigation, as this is a string of killings, not a one-off crime. Yesterday, he sat the rest of the Muggle investigative team - and by rest, I mean everyone but me - down, had them sign the Statute of Secrecy, and then told them about the Wizarding World.”

Nymphadora and Kingsley both froze, and then Kingsley groaned. The Minister of Magic leaned forward, his free hand rubbing his face. “Please tell me you’re lying.”

“Sorry.” John said, tucking his chin slightly to his chest. “As a result, and because they would have noticed eventually that I hadn’t signed a form, I also had to reveal that I was a wizard.”

Nymphadora sighed. “How did they take it? You, and the existence of the Wizarding World?”

“My revelation was a little bit easier - though I had to turn the kitchen table into a pig to get the lot of them to believe me.” He wasn’t telling them that Mycroft had accused him of being a Death Eater. “As for the Wizarding World - that was a little harder.” He swirled the liquid in his glass about, drained the contents, and poured himself another glass before continuing. “The police officers amongst the set were a little...upset...when Mycroft told them about Obliviation.”

“It’s standard practice.” Nymphadora immediately said. “Both for us, and for your lot during the War.”  

“I know,” John replied, sighing heavily. “Doesn’t mean that it was easy for them to hear that they might be missing memories because someone wiped their minds. The whole of the police force even, missing bits of information. Not something they were alright with.”

Nymphdora shook her head. “Obliviation of Muggles to keep the Statute going is non-negotiable.” She said sternly.

John winced. He didn’t want to get into an argument over this right now. Later, maybe. Or never. “Never the less, the Muggles in the group - including Sherlock - have a lot of questions. What is more relevant to the case, is that they want the two teams working together, with a liaison possibly running interference and smoothing over any cross-cultural difficulties.”

Kingsley shot John a look. “Don’t tell me.” 

“I volunteered.” John said, giving the Minister of Magic an apologetic glance.

Kingsley grouced. “Of course you did.” Nymphadora covered her face with a hand and mumbled something John couldn't hear.

“Technically, I was the logical choice.” John offered.

“John’s right.” Nymphadora pointed out to her boss. “He is the logical choice. He’s a known, trusted entity.”

“It doesn’t mean I have to like it.” Kingsley said shortly. “Once - if - the Prophet finds out, they’re going to have a field day. ‘ _Master of London Comes Home to Solve Murders_ ’.”

“I am not back.” John said quickly. “Not at all. We solve this, and I’m gone again.”

Sadly, both Nymphadora and Kingsley shot him a disbelieving look, which annoyed John slightly. He _meant_ it.

“My, erm, _acclaim_ ,” John said, slightly uncomfortable. “Is going to be an issue.”

Nymphadora snorted. “Understatement of the millenium.” She retorted.

John fought the urge to stick his tongue out, though inside his head, London had no such reservations.

Nymphadora seemed to know what he was thinking. “Oh, come off it. There are more than a few people who owe their lives to the Warriors, and you’re one of the most powerful wizards alive.”

“Only when I’m in the confines of London.” John interjected stubbornly.

Nymphadora rolled her eyes. “And you’re the Master of London.” She finished. “Which means that more than a few people are going to be a bit starstruck.”

“Like the Auror trainee in the lobby.” John grumbled.

Nymphadora raised an eyebrow. “Oh really?”

“Refused to take my wand. Sat on his hands, even, so I couldn’t hand it to him again.” John said.

Kingsley chuckled. “I’ll have to personally commend him.”

John made a noise of complaint, which didn’t do him any good, as the other two grinned at him. John reached for more Firewhiskey.

“There’s also the problem of Mycroft Holmes.” Nymphadora chimed in.

“What do you mean?” John asked. “Because he told the Muggle team about the Wizarding World?”

“No.” Nymphadora said, sharing a look with Kingsley that John immediately disliked.

“What?” John asked again.

“Mycroft Holmes was the Muggle liaison during the War for the Muggle government.” Kingsley said slowly. “However, since the War ended, he’s taken a more...interested stance on the Wizarding World, if you get my meaning.”

“He’s been poking around.” Nymphadora said. “Oh, we know he has a network of sorts.” She said at John’s startled look. “It’s only natural that the Muggle government would want to know more about the Wizarding World, considering they had no warning about the Second Voldemort War.”

“Only some of Mycroft Holmes’ investigations have been a little more pointed than just general information about our World.” Kingsley took over. “Those investigations indicate that he’s been looking for something.”

John’s brow furrowed. “Do you you know what he’s been looking for?” Mycroft was a driven individual, but he couldn’t imagine Mycroft going after some obscure Wizarding artifact.

“Yes.” Kingsley said, and he pinned John with an unreadable glance. “You.”

John was still for a moment, his mind having gone blank. Even London was flummoxed. “Sorry, I - he’s looking for _me_?”

“Rather,” Kingsley clarified. “He’s looking for the Master of London. You two got to know each other quite well during the War, didn’t you?”

“To a given value of well.” John said, confused. “We Obliviated him after each meeting. He has no idea that the Master of London is tired, boring John Watson.”

“You’re _anything_ but boring.” Nymphadora told him shortly. John had had a confidence problem in his Hogwarts years, which had been carefully and deliberately concealed. “But you exchanged gifts and letters, the Warriors kept him alive. He’s looking for a man he believes is not only an extremely powerful wizard, but also someone who might have been a friend. And has complete control of the city where the centers of _two_ governments are located.”

John closed his eyes. This was...not something he’d ever anticipated. They’d been doing their _jobs_ during the War. Yes there had been a budding friendship, and it had grown, at some point into a real, if hesitant one. But like with everything else, John had cut off all contact when he’d left the Wizarding World. He hadn’t thought that Mycroft would get... _attached_.

“How long?” John asked suddenly, opening his eyes. “How long has Mycroft been looking?”

There was a short pause, and then Kingsley responded. “About fifteen years.” He said. “Basically since you disappeared.”

John let his head fall back so that he was looking up at the ceiling. “Shit.” He said eventually, knowing that Nymphadora and Kingsley were watching him intently.

“You realize, that if this investigation proceeds the way you think it might, with you as the Muggle-Wizard liaison, and if the death count rises, your identity might be revealed?” Nymphadora warned him. “Once that happens, there will be no going back, and there is no telling what your friends reactions will be.”

“I know.” John said thickly, after a moment, thinking of Sherlock. His stomach felt like lead. He didn’t want this. He _liked_ keeping the two halves of his life separate. He had choices. He could let the Aurors Obliviate all involved and let things go on without Muggle involvement - but that was bordering on illegal and he wasn’t that much of a bastard. He could just out himself - but he didn’t want to. He looked back to Nymphadora and Kingsley. “If it happens, it happens.” He said quietly. “I don’t want it to, but…something tells me that it might.” Perhaps that feeling was why he’d come to the Ministry in the first place. “Would it be possible to make the members of the Wizarding taskforce take an oath not to reveal my identity, as even just a precautionary measure? To treat me as a normal wizard?”

Kingsley nodded slowly. “We can arrange it.”

“It wouldn’t be foolproof.” Nymphadora warned him. “I won’t make it an Unbreakable Vow, nor can I stop any idiots.”

John acquiesced her point with a dip of his head, and drank more Firewhisky.  “Well then.” He said, more tired than he should have felt. “Let the insanity begin.”

* * *

 

By the time John got home, he was hazy from all of the Firewhisky (there had been much more drinking after they’d decided on a course of action and exchanged information about the evolving case), and somewhat unhappy at being prodded and poked by the Healer that Nymphadora had called to the Ministry.

The Healer had been appalled by his injuries, which had resulted in the potions currently clustered in John’s pocket (which clattered together as he walked), and an offer to help with both the scarring and the range of motion in his arm. John had accepted the offer of range of motion (which would need repeated visits to the Healer in question) and declined the offer of scar reduction. Muggles would notice if his scarring was suddenly reduced.

When he did walk into 221, John knew immediately (from the lack of the sound of BB4 playing out of Mrs. Hudson’s flat), that his landlady was not at home. Sherlock wasn’t home either, judging from the lack of banging coming from upstairs. John smiled. It wasn’t often that he got the flat to himself, and so he climbed up to his sitting room somewhat elated.

It wasn’t until he walked into the sitting room, turned on the lights, and put his keys on the peg, that the trouble became evident.

“Why do you have a skull on your mantle, exactly?” A familiar voice - though not one he’d heard in fifteen years - asked curiously. 

John turned around to face the mantle, catching a glimpse of the man standing there. “Aw, no.” He groaned.

The corner of Harry Potter’s mouth quirked upwards for a moment. The two most powerful wizards in Magical Britain regarded each other with interest. Potter had aged well, a wedding ring on his finger, his hair as messy as it ever was. He had evidently filled out more, and dressed in a grey Muggle suit, sans tie, no one would have taken him for a wizard, or the ‘Savior of the Wizarding World’.

John closed his eyes. “This is why you weren’t at the Ministry.” He complained, only to open them again when Potter spoke.

“Tonks likes it when I take a bit of a walk sometimes,” Potter grinned wolfishly. “She likes being in charge more than I do.” He shrugged nonchalantly, moving around to sit in Sherlock’s chair. “I wanted to poke around.”

“And did you find anything interesting?” John snarked. Internally, he was asking London why it hadn’t told him about Potter trespassing. London, helpfully, appeared to be stifling giggles.

“No.” Harry grinned.

John rolled his eyes. They regarded each other again, Harry apparently giving him the same once-over John had given him.

“Well?” John asked.

Potter’s expression grew more serious. “So you’re back.”

John shook his head. “No.”

Potter’s mouth quirked again, and John wanted to know exactly what the other man knew, because it was clearly something that no one was telling _him_.

Potter didn’t respond verbally, merely slinked down in Sherlock’s chair a bit more, gazing at John with an expression that indicated that the other wizard was trying to figure something out about John. John didn’t move, feeling somewhat out of place in his own flat.

Suddenly, Potter grinned like a madman, and pushed himself out of the chair, taking two steps to stand in front of John.

John almost smirked. Potter was _still_ shorter than he was.

“Dinner’s at seven next week.” Harry said. “I’ll send someone to collect you.”

“No.” John said, as Harry moved away. “I’m not coming to dinner. I’m not going any further into the Wizarding World.”

Potter was at the door now. “Course not.” He said, still smiling. “Welcome back John.”

“I’m not back!” John shouted in exasperation at Potter’s retreating figure. “ _And we’re not even friends_!” He heard the other man laugh, then leave 221, the door shutting loudly behind him.

“I’m not back.” John said determinedly, to the empty flat.

The silence was not encouraging.  

**End Chapter 15.2**

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	17. Meeting of the Minds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The New Scotland Yard crew meet the Aurors investigating the cross- Muggle/Wizard world murders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a little bit over a year, this fic is back in progress! I have a lot to add, and lots of pictures of London to go with it! :)  
> (That's me hoping you'll forgive the wait!) 
> 
> Thank you again to laughing_phoenix, for the encouragement, editing, and brainstorming help :) 
> 
> Enjoy, and Cheers,
> 
> teacup

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* * *

 

The first meeting between the Auror department and the Muggle detectives of New Scotland Yard took place in a small, nondescript room in a safe house of Mycroft’s, just off of Seven Dials*.

“Fucking posh,” had been Lestrade’s half-disgusted comment, grudgingly accepting the location after discovering the fantastic coffee shop** down the street. The safe house was on the second floor of a building that looked as innocent as the ones around it, which in the detective inspector’s mind made it unlikely to have ever been used for anything but extra-legal purposes. It was a good, out of the way location for it. 

Not that he’d get any information from Mycroft about whatever dealings had or had not occurred in the safe house. Usually he’d be able to guess something from the atmosphere of the place, or the furnishings, but not this time. The flat was bare, with the exception of the table and chairs in the main room, white walls and dark curtains pulled over the windows.  It didn’t look as if it was going to be holding a historic meeting between two different police forces across cultural and metaphysical lines. If Lestrade had to decide, it looked more like a small business was meant to be moving in any time now. They could all be ready to vacate the minute a moving van showed up around the street corner. 

Apparently, according to Mycroft’s assistant, all recording devices had been swept for, found, and destroyed. If there were any magical recording spells (and there shouldn’t have been any), Mycroft was unaware. If they hadn’t been there to meet actual  _ magic users  _ (other than John), Lestrade would have thought he was in a Bond movie. Sherlock was having fun combing the room for listening devices, hoping to find one that his brother’s people had missed (the assembled were all too happy to let him, as the detective had been practically vibrating in his chair before getting up). How John dealt with Sherlock’s energy no one really knew. Even Molly had slapped him once or twice. 

Beside Lestrade Sally, clutching her own coffee cup, took a deep breath and looked towards the apartment door nervously. They’d talked the night before (in Greg’s favourite pub so that hopefully no one had been able to overhear them well) about what they were hoping to get out of the meeting. They had to play this right, as there was probably going to be a bit of arguing over procedure. Greg and Sally had come up with a list of things to go over, the first of which was a blanket ban on Obliviation of police officers unless strictly necessary. Other interests were more general, such as how they were going to handle the chain of evidence, and if the Muggle investigators were going to be allowed to see the Wizarding crime scenes - meaning, exciting trips into the Wizarding World. This collaboration, if it went well, might mean better cooperation between both police forces for years down the road, but right now the Muggle Police were going to be setting ground rules. They’d come off badly because they hadn’t known about the Wizarding World before. It wasn’t going to happen again, if Sally and Greg could help it. 

Sally was, admittedly, still having a bit of trouble coming to terms with the existence of the Wizarding World. John, she believed in. Then again, it was hard not to believe in John, and that he could do - or be - anything he could set his mind on. Sally had watched him deal with things that would have sent her around the bend - Sherlock’s supposed death, his return, Afghanistan - and she trusted John’s stolid honesty and presence. She’d seen him do magic, certainly. But it was still hard to wrap her mind around an entirely separate world on her front doorstep. Seeing other wizards would solidify her belief in the Wizarding World, but it was still an anxious wait. 

Mycroft had disappeared a while ago into the other room when his phone had rung, and apparently the whole place was soundproofed because with the door closed they couldn’t hear him at all, and Sherlock had tried the ‘glass to the wall’ trick, to no avail. 

The only member of their group who was remotely relaxed – and calling it relaxed was pushing it – was John. The doctor turned amateur detective was watching Sherlock putter around the room, chuckling each time Sherlock broke his concentration to rail at John about Mycroft, which was about every two minutes. The only sign that John wasn’t relaxed was the almost unconscious action of rubbing his hands against his pants repeatedly, and the fact that his foot was tapping rapidly, though quietly, on the pristine wooden floor. 

Apparently, John knew the detective inspector - Auror -  leading the investigation on the Wizarding side of things. From what John had reported, up until he’d gone to offer his services as a mediator John hadn’t seen the woman for fifteen years - and they had apparently been good friends. It was a matter that Greg had found extremely perplexing.

John cared about people - he wasn’t the type of man to divest himself of friends that way. He had remembered John’s discussion about the Wizarding War, and his parent’s death. Both of those things would have been reason enough for John to leave the Wizarding World, but… to walk away and never look back? To exclude old friends, who had ostensibly been fighting at his side? Even living in the same city as the centre of the Wizarding World in at least England? 

It made Greg wonder exactly why John had volunteered to be the liaison in the first place. If he had turned his back on the Wizarding World as a whole, why go back now?

As if his thoughts acted as a summons, a rap of three heavy, deliberate thuds hit the door of the flat.

Immediately, the temporary occupants of the safe house became alert. Mycroft came sailing out of the other room with perfectly coiffed haste. John stood up, and in response the rest of them did as well. Mycroft opened the door. 

Sunlight streamed in through the door, backlighting a number of men and women who stood there. The woman at their head stepped through first, and if Greg had had any illusions on his part that he was meeting with wizards, the people spilling into the room dispelled them in an instant.

They all wore robes, long flowing things that came over their normal-ish clothing. There wasn’t an obvious a hierarchy. Other than the robes however, there didn’t seem to be a semblance of uniform, though from the way that some of them moved it was clear they were used to a fight. Though there were no weapons - wands - in sight, there were, at least for some, knife holsters visible on various body parts amongst the group.

The woman who had entered the flat first however, was distinctive in both appearance and in the way she carried herself - the long, rough staff she used to lean on as she walked notwithstanding. She wore robes of a deep shade of purple, and there was one very long, pale streak of the same color in her hair. The scarring down the side of her neck, disappearing into the top of her black button down shirt was startling, and spoke of severe violence. Having worked with survivors of acid attacks, Greg and Sally were less affected than they might have been, but whatever had caused those scars - and presumably, the reason the woman walked with the staff (unless it was magical?), probably wasn’t a car accident, given that John had said that cars were not the primary method of travel. The rest of the wizards seemed to defer to this woman, so she must be the detective inspec - Chief Auror on the case. All in all, it was an impressive sight, the lot of wizards who had appeared on the doorstep. Part of Greg wished he’d put on nicer clothes.

The woman in question looked about the room once the door was closed behind them all, saw John, and winked. “Wotcher Johnny.”

John gave a little chuckle and demurred, while Greg noted that several members of the Auror team went wide-eyed at the sight of him. “Hi Tonks.” He said. 

“Sorry about the wait!” Chief Auror - Tonks(?) said. “Had to make sure everyone was dressed Muggle-proper.” She turned around and raised an eyebrow at one of the younger male Aurors, who blushed crimson and looked at the floor. “Anyway, we’re here now. Shall we start?”

Despite the fact that Mycroft technically had seniority - sort of - John took the lead and got everyone sitting around the table, then started the introductions. Both sides were staring at each other with avid curiosity. Greg wondered if the wizards had changed into their robes before they’d come into the room, for effect. Some, though he wasn’t sure if it was just because John was the liaison and dealing with the introductions, were ignoring the Scotland Yard team and staring at him. Out of the wizards, the only ones who seemed comfortable in the possibly non-wizard setting were John, Tonks, and the youngest of the Aurors (who was also, conversely, one of the two staring at John with wide eyes).

Sherlock had a pinched look on his face, and his eyes were flickering over the Aurors, likely trying to deduce things about them - and possibly establish where the limits of his non-wizarding knowledge ended and his need to know about the wizarding world began. John had complained to Greg through text that since the revelation that John was a wizard, Sherlock had increasingly asked every question he could think of, with answers of varying quality. It was, Greg knew, driving Sherlock nuts. 

Then again, Sherlock wasn’t the only one who wanted to see the wizarding world for themselves. Greg wasn’t entirely certain that even Mycroft had been to the wizarding world more than a few times. 

“Right.” John was saying. “Senior Auror Tonks-Lupin is an old friend of mine, and is now the deputy head of the entire Auror department for the British Isles.”

“That sounds more impressive than it is.” Said the senior auror, winking at them all. “Wizarding population is not that big. Plus, no one else wanted the job. Call me Tonks, everyone does. Johnny here is allowed to use my first time, but he’s won the honour, nobody else is allowed.”

“What did John do to ‘win’ the honour?” Sherlock queried. 

“He did it by being John, mostly.” Tonks grinned. “And a sodding nuisance.” She barked a laugh when Sherlock’s expression shifted into acceptance of this. 

John chuckled. “Tonks, I think you know Mycroft Holmes.” 

“Mr. Holmes.” Tonks nodded in Mycroft’s direction.

“This is Sherlock Holmes, and yes, they are related.” Tonks grinned at that, to Mycroft’s eye-roll, and Sherlock’s nod in return to Tonks. “And these our your New Scotland Yard opposites, in ranking - Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, and Sergeant Sally Donovan.” 

“Morning.” Said Greg, to Sally’s more subdued hellos. 

“Wotcher.” Tonks repeated with a smile. “Let me introduce you to this lot of troublemakers.” She indicated the man sitting next to her. “This is Auror Administrator Octavian Winegold, he’s also our liaison with the Muggle Affairs office, and probably the closest thing - sort of - to Mycroft Holmes’ job, at least for our division. If anything comes up that further crosses the boundaries of Wizard-Muggle worlds, he’s the man to talk to.”

The older wizard nodded, as if he was bowing, brown-grey mustache twitching. “A pleasure. I’m not in the field all that often, however, I think I will be looking forward to it, despite the rather gruesome circumstances. I have viewed two of the bodies New Scotland Yard has recovered.” 

Greg raised an eyebrow. That was news to him. 

“Next, we have troublemaking Aurors Eadric Reeve and Janina Marlow.” The two waved, seeming not wanting to interrupt their superior. They were a contrast in themselves. The young man wore the red robe, but the black tint of his hair was what Greg associated with the supposed look of the fictional(?) Merlin. The young lady however, while wearing the red robe, was brunette, with a stern look and eyes so green they could have shined. “Last but not least, we have young trainee Auror Kevin Bramson. Say hi Kev.”

The youngest of the group - and he couldn’t have been more than eighteen years old, Greg thought absently - jumped at attention, though didn’t seem to take his eyes off of John for more than a second. “Hi.” He said, clearly wanting the attention of the room to be elsewhere. 

“You brought a trainee?” Mycroft asked. 

Tonk’s gaze turned steely for a moment. “Yes. Trainee Aurors need field experience, no matter the case. High profile, cross-culture case or not, Bramson is Reeve and Marlow’s tag-along this rotation. I hope that isn’t a problem.”

“We let Sherlock onto cases, and his maturity level can be a little low at times.” Greg said quickly before Mycroft or Sherlock could respond to that, and earned himself an aborted cough of laughter from John. “If you say your trainee can handle it, I’ve got no problems. You, Donovan?” 

Sally shook her head. “Not me.”

Tonks nodded, and Bramson looked somewhat relieved. Sherlock was glaring daggers at Greg, who ignored him. 

“I’m Muggleborn, if that helps.” Bramson said quietly. “So, I’m a little familiar with police procedure, vaguely.”

“Was the social structure - hopefully within a generation the former social structure - of the Wizarding World explained to you at all?” Tonks enquired. 

“John explained some of the nuances.” Sherlock said, and then looked at Bramson. “You were raised as a normal...Muggle… and then learned you were a wizard.”

“Yep!” Bramson enthusiastically confirmed. “My mum loves crime dramas.” He added, which made Greg smile a little. 

“And we all know Johnny.” Tonks said, winking at John again, who grinned. 

“Well then, that’s the introductions done.” John said. “Any questions before we start talking about the case, from anyone - no, Sherlock, not about the Wizarding World, or we’ll be here for hours longer than we need to be.”

Sherlock huffed. 

“Besides, I hear you live with John, and therefore can ask him questions day or night.” Tonks grinned at John. “Harry says hello, by the way.”

Mycroft seemed to come to attention at this. John scowled. “Tell Potter that he’s an arse, and next time he breaks into 221b, I’ll sic Sherlock on him.”

Sherlock made an aborted noise in his throat, and the Scotland Yard crew looked alarmed, as did the Aurors, strangely enough, while Tonks laughed. “You can tell him that at dinner later this week.” She said cheerfully. 

John seemed to bite back a retort. “Why don’t we get on with the case, shall we?”

“Let’s start with the victims.” Greg suggested. “We know very little about the wizarding victims, and I don’t know how much you know about the non-wizard victims.” He staunchly refused to say the word ‘muggle’. “Though, we would appreciate it if you would stop taking the ones related to this case from our mortuaries.” 

Internally John winced. He’d have to inform Tonks, if she had not been told already, that one of her Aurors had tried to Obliviate Molly, and a pair of Warriors had had to intervene. Adam had told John after he’d read the report, and John had not been happy in the least. The taking of magic-affected bodies from mortuaries, from the look on Tonks’ face, was probably going to be something that would be ironed out in the future rather than immediately. 

“We can discuss the removal of anyone who was killed by magic at a later date.” Tonks said, proving John correct. “I’d rather have the suits sort that out while we solve these murders.” She nodded towards Auror Winegold and Mycroft Holmes. “Goodness knows that they like that sort of haggling. Reeve?”

Auror Reeve pulled from inside his cloak what thankfully looked like plain manilla folders, with papers in them. “We’ve got files on all of the wizarding victims*** here, so you can peruse them.” He said. 

Sally, who was sometimes more prepared than Greg was, pulled out her own folders (blue, not manilla), on the victims that had come to New Scotland Yard’s attention, including the wizarding victims that had been with them for a short time. 

John took a look at the wizarding victims first. He’d thought Calix Lucien would be the only one from the wizarding side of things, but blinked when he saw two victims, rather than one. “Hershel?” He asked Tonks in surprise. “As in the potions supplier?”

Tonks nodded. “Found near the Apparition point in Diagon. His body was positioned interestingly. It’s in the file.”

“Diagon?” Sally asked. 

“Diagon Alley.” John explained. “Think of it as the high street for… the entirety of Wizarding Britain, really. There’s shops, places to eat, Gringotts - the wizarding bank.” 

“Run by goblins.” Interjected Auror Marlow. 

The eyebrows of the non-wizarding portion of the room rose. John simply nodded his acknowledgement of the statement. “Our newspaper, the  _ Daily Prophet _ . The Ministry of Magic.”

“If there’s anything you need as a wizard.” Bramson summarized. “You go to Diagon Alley.” 

“Unless you’re looking for something a bit more...disreputable.” Tonks’ grin was almost feral. “Then you go to Knockturn Alley. Not safe for most wizards and witches, and our department usually has half the shops in Knockturn under careful surveillance. More than careful, in some cases.”

“Sovann Hershel owned Hershel’s Potion Supplies in Diagon Alley. He sold high quality potion supplies. Not the sort you’d get for if you’re just starting out learning the craft as a Hogwarts student.” John explained to the non-wizarding crew. “But the stuff you’d use if you were a Potions Master - like someone with a… biochemistry PhD.” There really was no good way to explain what a potions master was, or even what the Mastery entailed. “Or just someone who brewed at home and wanted the best ingredients.” 

“Why would someone kill him?” Sally asked. 

Auror Reeve shook his head. “That’s what we don’t know. He was a fairly upstanding member of wizarding society. Never been in trouble with the Aurors, though he did, several times, send in reports of crooked suppliers.”

Greg snorted. “Maybe, but everyone is guilty of something.” Tonks rewarded him for the statement with a wide grin. 

“Very true.” Tonks said. “We’re looking through Hershel’s papers and bank accounts - once we wrestled the account details from the goblins at Gringotts - and we’re hoping to find some discrepancies. It’s the positioning of the body though, that was most interesting to us. The manner of death, the use of the Sectumsempra spell repeatedly on the chest area, seems, at the moment, to be the only commonality between the victims.” 

“It says here that the positioning of Hershel was indicative of some sort of message.” Sherlock interrupted. “What was the message?”

Tonks hesitated. “To be honest, we’re not certain. Hershel’s limbs were positioned so that his feet were indicating Gringotts, and his arms the Ministry, and Diagon proper, respectively.” 

“A connection between the various institutions located in those directions.” Mycroft theorised. 

“That’s what we thought.” Said Auror Marlow. “But we already know that they are connected. There is also the possibility that the positioning was convenient, and random.” 

“Though that possibility is slim.” Sherlock hummed, perusing the folder. “No positioning of any sort was discovered with the other pervious victims. Interesting.”

“How so?” Greg asked. 

“There are numerous possibilities.” Sherlock replied. “The killer may believe that not enough attention is being paid to his ‘work’, or the institutions the corpse was positioned to point in had a personal meaning, or they even harbored hatred for those places in general.”

“We’ll have to ask the killer when we catch them.” Tonks said darkly. 

“Method of death similar to the other victims?” Sally asked, looking through the papers. “We hadn’t known about Hershel, though we probably wouldn’t have, if he was found in a strictly wizarding place.” 

“Apparently so.” Said Auror Marlow. 

“If possible,” Greg said, and tried not to show the hesitation he felt. “We’d like to see the crime scene, and we’re aware that you’d probably like to see the crime scenes from the non-magical victims, also where Calix Lucien was found in Trafalgar Square.”

Aurors Tonks and Winegold looked at one another, but it was Winegold who answered. “We would, and we have made arrangements for you to come and see any crime scenes related to the case that may be necessary in the Wizarding World. It is common for muggleborn children’s parents and families of muggleborns to be allowed into the wizarding world, and there should not be a problem.”

A frisson of excitement ran down Greg’s back. 

“As a warning however, we’re going to stick you with Reeve, Marlow and Bramson wherever you go, or with John.” Tonks said grimly, and then held up a hand to forestall any protest from the New Scotland Yard team. “John has told you about the Second Wizarding War, probably not much, but enough to get the sense of the politics in play. While much of the xenophobic sentiment amongst wizards has died down, and there are changes developing, there will still be a few wizards who will….vehemently protest the introduction of Muggle law enforcement into our world. Any Auror that goes with you, I’ve hand-picked. They will be for your protection,  _ not _ minders.” 

“I didn’t think it was still that bad.” John said, frowning. 

“If you’d listen to Adam and come back once in awhile -” Tonks began, before Winegold elbowed her, and the other Auror’s eyes went wide, which was interesting in Greg’s mind. So was the stubborn look in John’s eyes. 

“We’d like to talk to you, John.” Auror Winegold said. “To make arrangements, and the like.” 

John nodded woodenly. “We can go to the Sett.”

“The Sett?” Greg asked. He’d never heard of it. 

John shifted uncomfortably. “Warrior’s headquarters, erm… the Warrior’s Wizarding headquarters.” He knew that Mycroft’s eyes had snapped to him, but ignored it, also recognising that Mycroft was likely wondering if the Master of London was present there.

“Who was this Calix Lucien, in your world?” Sherlock asked. “The expedience with which his body was taken from the mortuary suggests that he was not a simple wizard.”

Auror Reeve seemed to be happy to be back on neutral ground. “He was a Light wizard, from a prominent, wealthy family, and is - was, rather -  the representative of his House on the Wizengamot.” 

“Light wizard?” Greg’s forehead furrowed. 

“Think Star Wars.” John said, to Bramson’s cough of amusement. 

Greg raised his eyebrow and replied “Jedi?” Just as Sherlock responded with “I don’t know what that means.”

Tonks barked a laugh. John glared at her, slightly put out that he’d led himself into explaining this. 

“Magic is, as far as I’m aware, relatively neutral, and so are most wizards. Over the centuries, though, some spells used by wizards were linked to being either Light - usually ones that do no harm, or ones that aren’t used for harm, and Dark spells - ones that were considered morally ambiguous. There’s really no lawful reason for the distinction in most cases, except for what’s known as the Unforgivable Curses - I’ll tell you about them later Sherlock.” John said before Sherlock could even formulate the question. “And most spells aren’t considered light or dark, it's more how you use them.”

“There’s whole fields of wizarding philosophy that try to make sense of it.” Auror Marlow added. 

“But, over time, some families in the Wizarding World decided to declare themselves ‘Light’, and reject any sort of dark spell usage, or what they called ‘dark magic’. Similarly, some families did the opposite and refused to use ‘light magic’, and became known as Dark wizards.”

“So, Jedi and Sith.” Sally said.

“I still don’t understand.” Sherlock said. 

“We’ll watch the movies.” John told him.  

“So our killer is a ‘dark wizard’?” Mycroft asked, once he’d torn his eyes from John. 

“Possibly.” Tonks replied, “but I’d be loathe to commit to that. Light wizards can be just as brutal and deadly.” All of the wizards in the room nodded in conformation. 

“We’d like to talk to the victims’ families.” Sally said. 

Auror Marlow nodded slowly. “I’m acting as family liaison for this case. You’d be welcome to come along when we talk to the Lucien family, and I am reasonably certain that they’d be fine with it. Hershel had no living next of kin in the United Kingdom. ” She smiled at Sally. “I’d like to see your technique at talking to the families, and compare notes.”

Sally agreed, curious about the wizarding ways of dealing with it herself. “We’ll set up a time to go see them, and compare notes.”

“What about the Muggle victim?” Said Auror Reeve. 

“We’ve already been in contact with the dock worker’s family.” Sally replied. “Wife and two children in Hoxton. Do you want to speak to the wife?” 

“If possible.” Marlow said. 

“If you’re going to talk to the family,” Greg said, steeling himself and catching Sally’s eye. “Then we have something to talk about first.”

“Such as?” Auror Winegold asked. 

“Obliviation.” Greg said. “Specifically, the lack of it.”

The resulting argument lasted an hour and a half, but only ended when John gave a shout for silence that was clearly, to Greg, inspired by John’s army days. 

No police officer on the case, it was decided, would be Obliviated. Muggle families of victims would be asked to sign a nondisclosure agreement rather than be Obliviated and left without answers. Any other issue with future, potential Obliviations would be discussed through Mycroft, Auror Winegold, and the policymakers of both Governments.

Thus, the first cross - world, joint murder investigation began.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Really pretty area in London, where seven streets meet, it’s filled with a bunch of boutique shops, and small coffee places. Found it while getting lost. Very lost.  
> **Monmouth Coffee. Really good coffee. Am willing to write lots of fic in that cafe if someone is willing to fund my new, burgeoning, coffee habit. ;)  
> ***Not exactly, though the Aurors don’t know about the Goblin deaths at the moment.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [This Great London](https://archiveofourown.org/works/660470) by [EllenFremedon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenFremedon/pseuds/EllenFremedon)




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